getting old is a bitch
but it beats the alternative
truth matters
no really, it does
common sense can’t be taught
science can
the word feminism was coined by a man
of course
we’re all lost
on the same planet
i hope i’m gone
before they make the sky
less blue
…
and i’ll show you a seed
left to dry in an envelope
or an avalanche of words
dropped cold on a doorstep
or a curtain barely moving
in a window filled with need
…
the right thing
is almost never
the easiest thing
and i watch you
doing everything
the hard way
taking root
in the furrow
of new growth
this morning the sun
strode straight past
the center of longing
we’re both here
(or there)
dawning
…
these days
i drink information
through a funnel
an endless stream
of bits and bytes
hoping for
a nibble
or a pause
just long enough
to gasp
grasp
entangle
…
a broken phone
will not deliver
cries for help
an ordinary walk
an ordinary day
sun shining down on both of us
a conversation
standard pleasantries
locked inside a panic box
neither fixable
nor fixed
in place
or time
or mind
it’s like i’m trapped
inside my own body
you said
can i ask you something
are you afraid of me
an ordinary house
an ordinary room
your dog asleep in the sun
as you broke into pieces
again and again and again
…
it’s not that
everything’s rosy
or perfect
(the horror!)
but there are flowers
and sunshine
presiding over tea
and i have this minute
(just the one)
to marvel
at the color
of stamina
…
i wrote a book
and threw it away
planted seed
and failed to weed
learned to play
and broke my fiddle
climbed a mountain
and laughed an echo
mixed the dough
and measured hunger
fought the wind
and ran for miles
counted stitches
and broke the needle
breathed in sky
and failed to fly
opened arms
and held you high
…
scraping ice from a windshield
in the dark cusp of dawn
red-winged blackbirds
flash neon signs
in hopes of feed and sun
three days ago
i watched a hawk
murder a grackle
(never forget to keep an eye
on the sky)
i whisper
and begin walking south
as the silence of north
calls me home
each step a false migration
blurring line
between time and design
a march of soldier
armed with rhyme
and stubborn pockets
leaking trails of sanity’s
seed
i listened for so long i went silent
mute as a river drinking dawn in the forest
mute as a sky bright with stories of stars
mute as a heart bleeding love like a wound
there are no words for any of this
no lexicon
for racing blindly through the darkness of reality
hawking bliss and deprivation in quiet turn
i am echo
singing jagged edge
across each mountain
you are breath
and something
less tangible
or everything
it’s all there
ramshackle and ready
prepared
but we’ve forgotten
history
her story
our collective
mind
i walk this path
i have traveled
too often
watch two bluebirds
savor sunshine
just the way March requires
i remember you there
on my windowsill
all magic and tragedy
survival
so often depends
on kindness
i say nothing
. . . . .
. . . . .
nineteen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
.
