Forgiveness


Always under construction


I don’t forget what

roads I have taken

in the night, when lights

from passing cars 

strangled the fog

into misshapen dew

and blinded me with 

abstract landmarks


Forgiveness is a storm 

you feel the hairs on your arms dance

when you’re too close to the fence

you can’t stay on it forever

but you stay frozen as

winds destroy 

what’s left of your safe space


Do you want to 

build a home

or a bomb shelter



11/24/22

Unfettered


My dog doesn’t like jazz

He paints his disapproval 

with exasperated sighs of

oil black and egg white

I love these quiet nights

spent with brass ballads

In my mind,

my feet are swinging

through the cosmos

as time goes by

I am a hopeless romantic,

hopelessly falling back into

my own arms

I always catch me

I light the right candles

and choose the right songs

I prefer my company 

and the shadow

of a dream where

my dualistic dog

takes off running toward the pines

whenever he hears the sound of trumpets

Someday, 

I will shuffle around a hardwood floor

that I sanded myself

and remember all of the times

I denied myself a dance

because a man wouldn’t join me

Someday,

I’m going to smoke

every cigarette I once craved

and light my own house on fire 

with the feelings I smothered

for someone else’s comfort

Imagine,

Billie’s voice leaking

through wooded windows

and the silhouette of

my naked, elderly body

Finally as unfettered

and unusual 

as my naked spirit



11/14/22

Violence

Superior is violent 

like the sea 

like me

Rocks aren’t as welcoming

as sand

But I stand here,

unrelenting

I am at peace

with violence

There is nothing except

a wind that rips through skin

with the promise of winter

Wolves stalk the neighbor’s cat

under a Pisces moon 

while I eavesdrop on hushed voices

At the picnic table,

a man regurgitates Hemingway–

a parrot in the land of eagles

Fireplaces and log cabins

are romantic to tourists,

but this place is a battered heart

and I know its pulse


I am at peace 

with silence


9/21/22

Space

I am porous

I lose pieces of me 

when I forget to say

I love you,

little girl

I expect others to

fill my spaces,

like planets spinning,

synchronized in iridescence

But men are meteors

leaving debris

or, simply leaving,

in search of something

bigger

better

untouched

There’s more impact that way

Meteors are not aimless

but I have no sense of direction

I wish I was a satellite

In the end,

all that’s left 

Is empty space

Someday, I will learn to

fill it with I love you,

little girl



7-3-22

What Now

we don’t respect death

we are crows with

shiny objects

tiny hands catch bullets

instead of baseballs

and we cry what now,

but now is the same as before

only guns have safety


the first time I pulled a trigger

I nearly shot a man hiding in the hill

I find no pleasure in power

unless it is shared

but sharing is only taught in classrooms

and it dies with our children

America is the land of promise,

of empty beds and crowded safes,

of talking heads and screaming babies,

of grieving families and political maybes


life is figurative

until it is taken

until mothers weep

in the streets of Texas

and New York

but by then it is death

and we don’t respect death

so what now


05-26-22

Island

When I look back

I see the flags

full mast

(always a reason

never the priority)

You can’t build a home

on an island

While you tapped SOS

and leaned on strangers

I patched leaks

and leaned on the strength

of the women before me

who had no choice

but I do

I chose you then

(always a reason

never the reality)

But I choose me now

4/6/22

To the birds

Eagle’s plume,

You dance on wind

And cradle the sun 

I am drawn to all Fathers

Who rock the skies to sleep

Sing to me,

Bathe me in affirmations

So I can soak in them

Whenever I am parched 

Yesterday my belly swelled with 

Your starry smile,

Each tooth a Great Wall

Between your tongue and mine

Today I am older

Happy 

To look up but not wish

To look back but not miss

Predation,

Only the empty nests

Where we left the future

To the birds

8/3/21

Ammunition

Decades of hiding in mirrors,

diving into deep ends

and drowning in drink one,

two, six, eight

I don’t know who I am

Do you hear me?

I never had the chance

When there is never silence

you create it

You swallow your tears and your dreams

and let everyone speak for you

You spend every waking hour trying to piece together

why you are now made of ammunition

explosive and cold

All you want is to be held

but you rip into your own flesh

until you’re unrecognizable

and you force them to tell you

what you already know

Then you lie down

and hope you never find the strength

to stand up

02-07-21

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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