Monday, May 19, 2014

I Can't Spell Poetry with a Capital P

Because when a body’s worth of coagulated blood is scooped
off a kitchen floor, it jiggles in the shovel. Because my parents

fed nine children on all the overtime Dad could get and an ad
in the yellow pages calling themselves a cleaning service. Because

when the phone rang at 4 a.m. that Saturday morning, they answered it,
filled a thermos with coffee, and drove off in the station wagon.

Because sometimes people use shotguns in their kitchens at midnight
against their own worst enemies. Because when my parents returned

home that afternoon, they smelled of bleach and sweat and needed
new shoes. Because somehow they had known to take a shovel.

Prism Review - Issue 16

There's No Quiet in Her Silence

unless you consider the wail
of a glacier as it splits down
the middle under the shimmer
of Aurora Borealis, the crack
of lightning striking the crook
of a branch so thick it creaks
and crackles on its slow fall
to the ground it immediately
begins to burn, or the groan
of ice crystals as they shove
a pebble from a mountainside
and the stampede of boulders
that roar against its absence
as sounds so soft they fade
like the hush of exhausted lovers –
lingering and panting in the dark.


Quicksand Is a Melodrama

Unless it’s up to your neck
and you’re reaching
for a vine in vain
as your hand slowly
sinks from view
like a half-assed
search and rescue.

At that point,
it becomes a real-life
son of a bitch.

Same with bleeding.
It’s all, “Great,
another overblown
of having your guts
ripped all the way out
by some bare-handed
beauty who clich├ęs,
‘I love you, Danny, but
I’m not in love with you.’”
Totally mockable,

until you’re at the bottom
of another long bottle
so afraid of seeing straight
that you stumble into the tub
fully clothed with a sweaty grip

on the sharpest thing in the drawer.

Writing Through Your Divorce - May 19, 2014

Friday, May 16, 2014

One New Thing

The afternoon is quiet despite a fullness of birdsong. I am tempted
to shush them with a slow finger to the lips and a whisper.

Before long, I hear an airplane and the birds hush,
as if to notice God, and I remember how it feels to be amazed.

There is one thing new under the sun this afternoon and he is learning
how to run in the grass of this green, green park between chirps

and caws and the buzz of the far away plane. He looks just like his mother
as he lifts a pinecone, says its name, brings it to me. He smiles against my kiss

on his cheek the way his mother always does and I give thanks for the blue
of their blue, blue eyes. I told his mother once that I could not be her friend.

That was a while ago, now, on a bench, in a different park (the one by the river),
on a different afternoon. Now, this afternoon, we sit atop the green dew

and share a blanket, familiarity, the watching of two blue crows in a curse-filled
aerial battle, and this one new thing under today’s yellow, yellow sun.