April 29, 2018
AGED 3 MONTHS
God, how I need the sun now.
I’m so weary of being indoors.
I’ve stopped wearing socks and shoes to the office.
I need to feel the worms, the shattered glass, the broken backs underneath my soft, bare feet.
I’ve disinvited myself to endless meetings, too.
Instead, I’ve taken up with sunshine,
and the the vines that run up the trees,
and the tiny graves of infant humans,
and the old ways of telling time, of measuring progress,
of being a body.
I hear you scoff from an open window, “The old ways?! The old ways?!”
But you’re not thinking old enough.
You gotta get deeper.
You gotta remember the dead,
remember the sun.
You gotta remember that hot light falling across your fat, tiny toes.
You gotta feel it, that hot light.
You gotta really feel it.
April 27th, 2018
1837 – 1870
AND INFANT DAUGHTER
AUG – SEPT. 1870
I wonder if she killed you
and I wonder if the others’ tears
fed the city that would soon
spring up around you.
You never saw
how their sadness
turned to brick and mortar
used to hold hopes for a new life,
used to hold off a slow death,
used to hold in the last breaths
of a jaywalker’s world.
Now, you rest between two trees.
In the summer, their leaves shade you from white heat.
Two birds fight in the distance.
Oh, maybe they’re flirting.
It can be so hard to label natural inclinations.
It’s a problem to try to understand love at all
when most graves have such a common tale to tell.
April 23, 2018
White woman walks by in a Wu-Tang shirt
White feather waits above a grave unknown
An ant crawls up my pant leg, looking for life.
Tree bark is an ancient remedy for an aching back.
An alarm is sounding and a mangy squirrel
rears up on hind legs
in a curious challenge to some intuited superiority
before scurrying up a favorite trunk to bark at me
from a place of perceived safety.
More sirens sound
on 7th and Minnesota.
The squirrel forgets that many men hurl rocks and words to
maintain a silent world.
An ambulance arrives at the library.
The sirens wind down.
The squirrel gives me the finger and lights a cigarette.
I can see Missouri from here.
And I can read between these tombstones’ lines.
April 20th 2018
The bones are old but the boy is not.
The boy has dreams but the bones do not.
We should have a dandelion festival, you and I.
Dress in our finest yellows and greens,
boldly expose ourselves
to the chilly spring air,
serve as a reminder
to those that walk above us
that the dirt is old and the center is hot,
that all’s born from dreams and impossible thoughts.
April 13th, 2018
The sun is out,
though western clouds
threaten death from above.
It is the stormy season.
I am listening
to the wind and M83
and eating lunch and thinking
of the dead supporting me.
Two robins eye my salad,
chirp, “The dead support us all!”
The wind howls like life,
blowing everything away.
Still those gathering birds,
with all their hollow bones,
keep moving toward me,
hungry look in their eyes.
They don’t mind the wind.
They don’t fight the clouds.
They understand what’s coming.
It is the stormy season.
Again with the dream
Of driving my car
Up a mountain so steep
That the wheels
Lose their grip
And we start
To slip backwards
Into the abyss
Of paths tread before
And our stomachs
They tell us
That surely we’re falling
Except we never return
Instead the car
Just keeps moving
Keeps climbing upward
Attracted by something
That shines far out of reach
Dropping some knowledge:
we left the children outside
the snowflakes covered them
we called their names at dawn
using our strictest voices
our threats no longer mattered
around high noon we knew regret