It looks near the peak like wind has rubbed alpine grass
from the clean-edged boulders like paint from the head
of a statue of a child. You take a photo of Hank and me
in which we are invisible against a mountain of ankle-
breaking gaps.
But it won’t be;
gravis, gravis, gravis,
be sure of that.
The good books tell us
feed the hungry
be kind and loving
to kith and kin
Today, I begin as a hollow “O”:
a ceramic lung waiting for the steaming pour,
the sensation of an honest heat.
Mostly, I am grateful for the hands:
the way they cradle my frame.
Not to own. Never to own.
We need love
When there’s nothing
Left to share.
We need love
When all is
Hardening cement.
We need love
The mind must break through the chains
Of enslavement and petty property owners.
Emancipate the mind
The heart will follow
The truth, always in turmoil,
Will not fall between the cracks
born on Woodridge lane
love nurtures connection
try so hard in a toddler’s arms
first steps first words first school day
first dance first driving lesson
A heart lacking good sense,
chasing after its yearn
like a bull to its treacherous
slaughter, praying
for its plans to see the
light of success
The night—quiet but full of hushed bickering—
returned. I put on headphones, but in vain.
The moon was bright yet restlessly flickering.
Looking at the photos on the wall—once sweet—
I could feel the lies and yelling
At thirteen, she wanders
fields near razed homes in Bucha,
hears echoes of cries eerie
in shattered walls. She shelters
in hollows of a hospital turned home.
Once upon a time, she was a child
with eager eyes in search
of trinkets in a greenhouse—
in this poem i will assess all the winding routes to betterment
examine my inner workings
and optimize them
make another list
a financial report
break down my existence into simple word problems
if the world continues on
long enough, past
you and me and everyone
we know, will every
house be a house
where someone famous once
lived, every home a museum, except maybe ours
The waitress didn’t call me honey when she set down my bowl of clam chowder
but said she liked my cheap sunglasses,
and looked at me strangely when I made some graceless joke about them,
utterly unprepared for a compliment
My hanging basket of geraniums dies
on my front porch, soil in a pot
surrounded by three sides of bricks.
I leave for work, come home every day,
thinking I should clean this thing out,
put something new in its place.
In a low-slung stone building
commas return like monks, slightly
drunk after sipping Trappist Ale.
They have taken a vow of silence
and do not hum between titles of hymns,
films, foreign phrases and blessings.
Conjure a faun in the middle of field.
There’s a cabin in the distance, homespun
& brown, & the thick-torso’d wild turkeys
march a few feet away, leaving dinosaur
tracks in their wake.
Don’t let any of this stop you.
The smoke runs thin
by mid-morning
The river is once again
worth waking for
I approach the water,
spread my arms,
wade,
then rise
You belay each old conception
Clean into the next room.
Meanwhile, I turn my heart over
To some crooked star. It burns
This morning the divine is wearing my Land’s End robe
and demanding chai. It seems unwise to deny her appetite,
given I don’t often wake up with her, but usually spring
from my bed like some ludicrous toy that hones
when sweetness was simple
fruit split easily
their light filled my mouth.
the world was
clear juice, spring air
round and right as a grape.
I was sweating
through the dress
I had picked for someone else.
The club was closing.
Particularly at this time
I like to look out of the window
Tree branches cutting the picture into pieces
Hanging wires crisscrossing from the poles
The garage roof with its wall block the sight below
Wake Up!
Wake up, Celi!
No, not yet, Cinth
I am far too cold
I need a long shower
I feel like mold
DNA remembers…the passage
ancestors transferred, morsels of
inheritance
safely kept in tiny packets
memories within cells
red headed, blonde, brunette
ebony haired mothers
in small acts i
carry what came from before me
that fire where:
earth met heat, kept shape, kept
catechisms
on my lips.