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.
Photo by Patricia A. Hawkenson
I took my wagon
to the end of our block
knowing I could not go
any further.
Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me
home.
It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.
It is closer
to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.
If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.
Ride with me.
Hang on tight.
It’s going to be
a bumpy ride
home.
The morning cold
makes me sidewalk hard
and dampness
taps me on my chest
to say it is my turn again.
I’ve tried to beat God
at this game,
but it doesn’t seem
like an even match
when he plays with clouds
and I only hold
a rock in my hand.
Farmer tans are understandable,
a tag team effort with the sun
marking a man for a job well done.
But the white line left on your finger
where you have removed our ring,
lies about your futile effort.
Stop shopping at the open market.
Can we finish the job we started
before we both get burned?
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?
Dew laden grass made her shoes glisten
in the early morning sun
but the berry bushes were stingy
so she had to travel on.
The forest branches were bending to and fro
with welcoming arms that beckon children
to those dark and silent spaces
hiding quietly between the trees.
But the wind was whistling a pleasant tone,
almost a song that left a happy feeling,
so she left her basket by the mossy glen
to chase a butterfly floating on the sound.
But the dark and silent spaces
hiding quietly between the trees
eat little girls for breakfast
when the berries are not ripe.
Much more than a solid path
directing me from place to place,
the sidewalk goes on and on
pieced tightly together
like the days we’ve lived.
Yet today, the sun’s heat
has evaporated the wet remembrances
of last night’s summer rain
turning my child’s chalk drawings
into unrecognizable colored streaks
upon the sidewalk.
The passers-by stop briefly
looking down on the cement
intrigued by the thought
of what might have been.
Then they walk on
stepping on all our dreams.
Driving south on highway 63,
just past Cable,
my car takes me past the bend
where trees bow their branches wide
in homage to the Namekagon,
and its tempting glistening corridor
pulls me to its waters.
In my mind’s instant wandering
I’m on a languid inner tube
floating down the river.
Dragging a stick behind me
like a paintbrush,
I draw swooping birds
that follow me as I linger
with my hair bobbing like seaweed
catching the current.
My toes are dangling
where minnows can circle them
and my fingertips filter the coolness
as I push away from rippled rocks
where anglers could tangle me,
small mouth, or northern.
I drift away from all the thoughts
that steer me in my car
because the river flows on a different path
than where I thought I’d travel.
My teacher has a sign hanging in our classroom:
No Bullies Allowed.
And she means it.
She won’t let anyone
call me names like Gap or Gumby
just because my front teeth are gone.
No Bullies Allowed.
But summer is here and my teacher is on vacation
so there is no one to stop Mom
from rubbing salt in my wound
with this taunting,
butter dripping,
golden ear of corn.