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
Mother
Periphery
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
If
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
Crumbling
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
Patience
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
Shortness of breath
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
Once was
Cells pumping in veins
like Texas oil,
thick and black as night,
red as waning sunlight
then the peace of disappearing hope
and the stagnant warmth of stillness
It hangs on me like dead skin–
an extra layer of once was,
the dichotomy of rain and rust,
and everything that should be
but isn’t
and everything that will be
but shouldn’t
01-30-20
Optical Illusion
The sun glints in the rear view
and spotlights a trash bag in the back seat
My eyes are pierced by a flash of white
and I mistake the bag for an intricate cobweb,
a creature’s hard-fought work of art
When my pupils adjust, it’s only plastic
and I wonder if I could ever see beauty
where there is garbage,
if I could ever look back and see boxes
filled with treasure and laughter
instead of mismatched socks and uncertainty
I’ve learned how to pack properly
how to fold clothes neatly
how to separate the pots from the pans
how to throw out tired utensils
but I can’t throw out the tired memories
no matter how much they exhaust me
I heard once that men are compartmentalizers.
They can tuck information into filing cabinets
and store them in the recesses of their brains
and control when anything is retrieved
But I am a [insert derogatory reference to psyche] woman
so when I see a cardboard box, my neurons scream
“abort, abort!” and suddenly I am 8 years old
and everyone is screaming
and we have two weeks to leave
and I don’t know where we’re going
and I don’t know if we’ll be together again.
People tell me not to look back
as if it’s a matter of fact,
as if it’s a decision you can make
even when the sun is behind you
and you can’t see what’s ahead.
Then and now and later are a blur
of here and there and fact and fiction,
but I finally realize it’s an optical illusion,
so I’m not running away.
01-06-20
Hard Work
Robin Hood, the wayfaring thief that fed the hungry,
has disappeared like the humanity
that prompted him in the first place
Friar Tuck tried to save the poor,
but the rich have always claimed
their full pockets are God’s blessings
Hard Work pays off, they say,
and pays no taxes
Hard Work pays no mind
to the misty eyes of the beggar
or the sex worker or the addict
Because Jesus made his choice
If only they could see,
Jesus was more of a Robin Hood
than a billionaire
11-19-19
Astral Projection
Dancing, black silhouette behind a snow-soaked pane
A tree or a sprite, maybe,
It’s hard to make out through her wings–
like mossy green growths from her chair–
brushing the walls in narrow halls,
trailing her scent of clove and citrus
with traces of glitter
when she sings, the trees bend in half
and my heart swells against my ribs
until we’re all pleasantly uncomfortable,
inside and out
For a moment I remember the first time
I heard Tori Amos while reading up on time travel
and I feel myself astral projecting
beyond the dark strings and siren notes
No one notices me flying before I catch myself
staring at the shadow outside, still dancing
11-11-19
Gretchen Pleuss 