Almost every child
boy and girl
had cap guns
that snapped
paper rolls
puffing sulfur smoke
but it was commercials
with dirty highways
that made the Indian cry
“Keep America Beautiful”
till another Indian
on tv test patterns buzzed
as we tossed
the blown out
paper strips
too late
but we were too busy
shouting
“You’re dead!”
to care.
I am unsure
of whether
you desire
the stimulation
of caffeine
or the no-bra spirit
of caffeine free,
but I know
the idea
of loving you
is brewing bitter
with infused jealousy
as you are distracted
by her other offerings.
I’m doubly sure of that.
I’m not my makeup
yet I draw
like child’s play
a path to find me
under my blood lip twists
and black brow turns
till the sidewalk of me
heaves
and the earth below
rises
as my dark desire
finds its joy
and double dares
the clouds to come.
I tried to close the opening
the bed rail made
but between the blood
in my eyes
and spots on the floor
the dishtowel could hold
no more
and I remember the gasp
my mother released
all the way to heaven
as her hand pressed
until the doctor
could prove
his stitching skills
and mother could
not thank him enough
for his knowledge
of quilting
and her hatred
for him
and his feminine ways
would bloody
her eyes
no more.
Did she really do that
to herself
on purpose?
Yes. Apparently so.
Wow. The stupidity
of some people
is mind-boggling.
Yes. Apparently so.
What would make her
think that’s okay?
Her? I’m sorry.
I thought we were talking
about you.
Me? Stupid?
Yes. Apparently so.
Softly woven
in discarded
string and grass,
he hides
his hungry babies,
and I hear him
chattering angrily
through the glass,
yet I have no time,
no stale bread
to toss his way.
My thoughts
are tied
to her clinic,
those time gorging
IV drips,
and no amount
of banging
my head
against the glass
can coax cancer
from her veins
and hand her
that small cracker,
that extra day,
that God refused
to give.
She already had one foot
in her grave, when we,
innocent children of the 60’s,
peeked over the fence
at old ‘Tomb–Tomb Nelson’
tending her garden
in her tattered slip again,
and controlled our giggles
so she couldn’t hear,
while our mocking breasts
swung over our shoulders.
Tomb-Tomb.
Guilty, but never caught,
we’re sentenced by breezes
to remember
grass fluttering
while caressing her knees,
the scent of the dirt
perfuming her hands,
the feeling of snickers
lying deep in our throats
choking the childhood
out of us.
Tomb-Tomb.
I earned a Ph.D.
in kaleidopathy
to study intently
the phenomenon
of how light
with points along
a wave front
curve
as the focusing
of your eyes
like light
through a prism
deflects
me from my path
and the apparent
changing positions
of your celestial body
is enough
to make me bend
That feeling
when your foot
is stuck
and you know
you have to sacrifice
your boot
to the mud god
is fleeting
as summer’s heat
dries up
any proof
that you were brave
enough to
slug through
the mire
of yesterday
to find the firm ground
of today.
I just bought
a pair of earrings
described as
‘whisper light’
and it didn’t matter
what their style
I just wanted
to have them
dangling
in my ears
and telling me
their secrets