Musings and Misgivings
tight chest, juice pressed
from the fruit of my labor
and its rotting skin
do you remember
blades of grass under
small feet?
the world spinning by
on the merry-go-round?
we laughed and jumped
and felt our bones crack
for the first time.
it was never a thought
until we were motionless
the whirring world
carries on but with
less laughing and
more cracking of the whip.
nothing is broken
but something is always spinning
5-14-19
Stalking the sun,
it paints the dirt before me
like a reckless Pollock
The colors splatter
against the trees
and freckle my skin
Birds cry out for attention
and I give it to them
(you say I have a hard time saying no)
I have always chased the light
as if it’s something to be caught
But what difference does it make
if it steals my eyes
when I see how the world could be
and not how I have known it
5-7-19
how many years have we been told
our eyes must sink like suns
behind the mountain men,
because warmth is an invitation
to strip the valley of its flowers
how many hours have we spent
covering our faces in flesh-toned tarps
to keep the rawhide in
and the tired out
how many times have we cradled
our sagging skin like babies,
damp from neglected tears
and swollen from the sting of
unattainable perfection
vanity is a word they made up
to excuse their expectations of
soft but firm
sweet but assertive
pure but provactive
wise but ageless
now when my eyes
are trapped in glass,
I liberate them with
a gap-toothed grin
and tell the world
it can’t have me
4-29-19
a million screaming voices
hang like moss in my throat
I want to hold you up
with the roughs of my tongue,
you’re in every word
that I can’t get out
instead, my mouth clicks
and quivers and I drown
myself in confusion
until I’m convinced
you’ll flee before I can cut
back the moss, swing out on a vine,
and say I love you
please stay
4-5-19
he couldn’t strip me
of my color,
though he wished
I wasn’t bright
he couldn’t keep me
hidden from curious eyes,
though he tried to bury my name
he couldn’t keep my spirit soaring
lower than his own,
though he tried to strap his shame
like weight on my wings
he couldn’t break me
like a horse
(I broke away)
4-4-19
when you drink from
the fountain of youth,
you steal it from the children
while you stock up on gold,
they’re drinking only silver
until their throats catch fire
and their brains smolder in ash
you’ve never been a giver
so they asked you to take
the heavy metals
they threw their hopes and dreams
at your feet like pennies in a wishing well
still you only felt the paper in your pocket,
not the beating of your heart
4-3-19
How could she not love you
the way you walk with your shoulders forward,
pushing glaciers north,
carving mountains behind you
the way you melt ice
with the grays of your eyes
and pool that water
in the blues
the way your laugh shakes your cheeks
and the ground beneath you
the way it sings in her heart
and mine
4-2-19
Can you lick your own wounds
if someone else has your tongue?
The white oak breaches the clouds
from a field of tall grass,
its seed, once carried on the wind,
took root with little support
from the elements and peers
it guards its autonomy
with open space
and stays postured
for the valley storms
So why does it take a village
to pump your blood?
4-1-19
I am baking in the earth’s crust,
burning out and settling in
The fabric of another life folds
like a patchwork quilt on the table before him
My fingers streak through his hair
and pave new pathways
he can feel, but can’t see
I sip him like hot coffee
in a cold car,
steam fogs the windshield
and I squint to find my place
I can’t see, but I feel him
in the back of my throat
and the pit of my stomach
burning up and settling in
3-18-19
