Musings and Misgivings
The impetuous screeching of cicadas,
suffocating Ohio summers with
their cries for attention
every seventeen years
like teenage hyenas at Head Row
desperately seeking prey
in the shadows
of disheveled baseball diamonds,
dust-ridden and ravenous
We like to believe
we can timestamp
high noon,
radiant and thick
with promise
But we are all bugs
buzzing with life
only to wane at first frost,
leaving crumpled carcasses
and rough drafts
rather than legacies
7-20-20
Mouth running like mascara,
hair tucked securely in the past,
she reaches for me with dewdrop skin
though it’s still not safe
Rest now
He shifts in bed until his feet,
now thick with summer heat,
hang just out of reach like forgiveness
I plant his brittle spine
into a nest of pillows
like a baby bird and he squawks
Rest now
Wiping the lunch from his face,
I think of how we are all children
taking leaps of faith
even after science shows us
that clouds aren’t beds of cotton
Rest now
Fly later
7-9-20
A familiar feeling
A familiar tone of voice
It’s soft and even
As you leave a message
For her to digest later,
As if it’s something she can pass
As if it’s something you’ve already chewed
“Another one?”
Yes. Another.
Another kid turned man,
Cigarette in hand no matter
How many times you tried to put it out
Another laugh rippling through the cosmos,
Ripping through a family like heavy wind and rain
Because even laughter is a storm
Once it’s a memory
It’s all loud and grey and uncontrollable
And no matter how many times you’ve seen it happen
No matter how many ways you saw it coming,
You’re never prepared
6-15-19
can you plead with a knee
when there is no heart above it?
there was a heart below it,
that loved
that lived
that wept
as the world watched
another white man
steal a black man’s life
5-27-2020
bathe me
clothe me
steady my timid feet
before I till the soil
and plant my own garden
someday I will
bathe you
clothe you
steady your feeble feet
and lead you
back to the garden
so you can rest
5-10-20
Tired
the kind of tired
where even your ribs ache
from holding it in
I breeze through a cemetery
where dandelions push
their blonde heads
toward the sun
to remind us
that life goes on
Even though I am not ready to move on
I have already watched you fade
into the old you and grieved
at the foot of a stranger’s plot
I am tired of losing you
So I leave you here, where I can visit
and remember the times when your eyes
kept me in focus
and forget the times when
they pushed me
into the periphery
5-10-20
It is no longer when
but if
I’ll ever see you again
Nothing is guaranteed
so I cuddle the dog
and stare at the pregnant neighbor
as I wash the dishes
I wonder what it’s like
to bring new life into a dying world
She rakes the soil
to prepare for spring
and waits
for the birth of a new chapter
On gray days,
I think of the sun laden afternoons
in Yellow Creek
before I jumped ship
and learned to love a new town
and every man who would let me
The uncertainty was thrilling,
but this time it’s different
it’s grief-soaked and lonely
and infinite and screams if
until I forget there ever was a when
All I know today is I love you
If and when and always
4-23-20
Our thighs graze on the couch and I reach for your arm
The senator speaks through a lens and my eyes well
The world is crumbling and so am I,
and here is someone who says it’s ok to crumble,
just not to give up
Later, we pop a bottle of Eight Barrel Syrah
and dance to Billy Joel in our sweatpants
And I think of all the times we’ve crumbed
but haven’t given up
And of all the beauty we would miss
if we were so focused on ourselves
The world is weeping together now
maybe something will change
4-9-20
Dodging passersby like bullets,
my feet clap against the concrete
and leave invisible prints,
a timestamp of sweat,
I was here
But so were you
You linger in the breeze like pollen
Everything is shared now, even apart
Sometimes we hold our breath
because the air can kill us
We fill our lungs with patience
to keep them from collapsing
and make a wish,
even though there are no candles
and we can’t exhale
4-6-20
four walls
one breath
circulating endlessly
I can’t catch it,
even in good health
maybe it’s knowing
that you will die
that I will die
that someone I know will die
maybe it’s the rent
or utilities
or hard rain falling
on the bedroom window
when I’m nearly asleep
maybe it’s knowing
that we have no way out
you pace in circles
until the vinyl is worn
you wallow in nostalgia
until your cheeks are wet
and you tell me you texted her
because you worry
but you don’t worry about PPE
or the local nursing home
or the diabetic who raised me
you worry about her,
and ask “how is business?”
while she’s on a date,
vacationing in another state
as if there was never a virus
and we were never a factor
then you ask me why I’m quiet
and I say the oxygen is thin
(I want to share it, not fight for it)
3-29-20
Gretchen Pleuss 