Day 27. For you, we grew tusks

You were the first.

For you, we grew tusks.

Our eyes widened for watching.

For you, we learned

To make castles from dust.

We learned upside down, akimbo.

We saw lions

In ornamental grasses.

We circled you, walking sideways.

We slowed for you

While you sped

Your own circles of bright clouds,

Our orbits intersecting

For now, until the thrumming

Of your life shudders you free.

Day 26: I own the names I'm given

Mommy.

Baby.

Darling.

Cunt.
Mrs.

Faggot.
Boss lady.
Bitch.
Badass.
Mami.

Day 25: Cheaha

Early birds flicker in

the prism green of morning

loosing droplets thok

upon the roof.

Our domed world fills with

breath, damp and heavy.

Day 24

A woman on the shoulder

Folds in half

Her face buried in her hands.

Does it matter if she is

Young or old

How dark her skin

Her clothes

Pressed or torn

Her hair unkempt or no

When grief folds

A woman

In half by the highway

Does it matter

Day 23: Prepositions

Because we are finite

we define by relationships -

Prepositions

Two or more in Context :

When I say last night

you looked

into

me

you have to know what the

out of

was

to understand the deepening

the winding

between

the quaking slowly

down

against

you

have to know

that you are the

because of

the

beyond

Day 22

Tonight

the dogs mistook

the wind for

coyotes,

barked like

fools

The lower profile

cars like

yours

hold steadier

in weather

I watched the

big oak

twisting

in the dark

and wished you

home

Day 21

The child I raised on time

thinks to distraction

will not dance

knows goodness like a

weathervane

The child I raised on freedom

wants a husband

and a tattoo

and sleeps with a snake

under her pillow

Day 20: Unsupervised

she turned the lock
and smiled at the
everything
the silence
could be
savoring
for the first time
the exhilarating
freedom
of
alone

Day 19: untranslated time

The thermostat reads the air;

spits out a degree.

The clock ticks incessant seconds.

The phone dings an appointment you forgot.

You’re drowning in a river

of digits.

step outside

into untranslated time.

you are counting the weeds;

stop.

stare at their colors instead

(it isn’t impolite here)

you are thinking

what it will cost to fill the ditch;

stop.

go see all those frog eggs in it

you are wondering

how long you should stay.

stop.

should is an imaginary word

anyway the bees are singing to you

come out

come

into a world

without numbers

and accept

you are not in control.

Day 17

O you nation

of gluttons,

you have squandered your praises

on swindlers

and eaten the rocks

so they wouldn’t tell;

you’ve stripped the trees of their hands

and blasted the mountains into silence.

You have built windows

to other worlds,

whose blinds you only draw

when they fill with the

cries of

children

gasping like fish in the streets

little girls fed to soldiers

families made into cattle on the highway.

You sacrifice

your own people

so

you

don’t

have

to

>>see <<

them

so you don’t have to

offer them

what is

yours.

If you were able,

you nation of thieves,

to raise your voice

in grief

for even

one

of these

even one

would it shatter

the dried, brittle

universe

of your heart?

Day 16

My little hound dog,

my bear hunter,

slides to the floor

like Bambi on the ice pond,

then turns to me for guidance.

The great snake chaser,

boxer of puppies,

lover of cats –

her body juts and rises

where it shouldn’t.

It doesn’t do right, anymore.

I am a rescuing shadow,

shifting darkly through

her clouded marble gaze.

We remember

more than see

one another

now.

I fed her an extra scoop tonight.

Day 14

what if
the things
you believe
about god
are
actually
true?

Day 13: Lune

daytime shadows dance

kizomba

soundless in the sun

Day 12

I know where the hawk sits to watch us

and where he’s going when he leaves.

I know that pillow moss is a fairy forest.

I know the mockingbird can sing in 4/4 time

and woods can sound like oceans

if you close your eyes.

I do not know what happens when a dog dies,

but I know what his happiness looks like,

and I know that he is blessed who crosses

unafraid.

Bye Day

No poem tonight. Tonight I'm at a pre-wake for this dear fella, who is eating ribeye steak and doggie ice cream.

Day 10: Haiku sandwich

if i were a queer baptist

and sat in your pew,

you’d just as soon not know it.

it would be harder,

knowing, to smile and not flinch

when you shook my hand.

i guess i cannot blame you.

if you’re a bigot

i’d rather not know either.

Day 9: Where the Wild Things Were

King Max leans into a puddle of beer

telling tales of his monsters –

again –

with a mix of

bravado and horror.

He forgets to eat supper most nights

so the roars are more

terrible

when he tells them,

swinging his arms wide,

knocking glasses over,

making mischief.

He stares into the yellow eyes of a young man

soaked in Bud Light,

blinks,

pays his tab and wanders home,

the vines in his head

hanging thicker,

to crawl into bed,

whispering to himself,

“Let the wild rumpus start.”

Day 8

my eyes too tired for 

   words

but   not   for

you          be my poetry

    word-less

     

    you my soft but

         not

     like

blankets       soft

       '

           my weak

kneed

      
my

            volcano

   you

my

       dark     and       deep

                 my 

                   edge

               my     not    my

           you

Day 7

Day 6

i didn’t know whether

i believed in souls ’til

i first saw one leaving

just a day or two after

granny placed his hand in mine

so’s she could get some crackers

and answer the phone --

she wouldn’t leave him

’less someone stayed to hold

his hand,

to hold him there.

even a body that never moves anymore

changes

when his breath runs out

like an unresolved chord,

a foreign stillness

on his

paper skin.

plant me under butterfly bushes

when i go.

all the best deaths have

butterflies.

don't say any prayers;

this ain’t no altar call.

tell the stories that make

you feel good

and play living people’s music

and kiss somebody,

and go on home.

Day 5

Along the trail,

tossed into the grass:

a blue t-shirt,

red striped cotton boxers,

two white socks and one black.         

So many questions.

A looter? Trickster? Tweaker?

Unlucky? Covered in ants?

So many stories.

Afternoon delight?

Her clothes all muddied,

he offered his pants and went …

naked…?

Nah.

True crime?

APB: Suspect is shirtless,

barefoot, commando.

Victim missing one black sock.

Hm.

Patriotic, if nothing else.

Day 4

Oh bless the soul

of that poor zealot

first to liken blooms to chastity,

who must have turned his eyes

from both the women

and the flowers –

all he missed:

The regal iris

anchoring

the wedding centerpiece

boldly thrusts his yellow

stamen out

to titillate the bees

and when the

gentle gardener

scents her holy Rose of Sharon,

she sinks her face in

nature’s most superior

ovaries.

In the parlance of the flowers

the hermaphrodite is queen;

the blossom that is

all in one

is “perfect.”

Look it up.

Praise be

that nature puts no stock

in privacy

or we’d overlook

this springtime bacchanal.