the color of your eyes,
like your mood,
averted until my focus strays
into the distance,
into an occupation,
into the abyss,
finds and holds me.
commanding in play,
only to linger
at the specter of staunched tears
in the name of an unnamed child.
spiced with observation
the past is rich and multifaceted;
the present dynamic;
a future does not exist.
when you break my heart,
be it in a moment
or a millennium of moments,
does this life continue?
is there such a thing as global warming?
Weathered boat, unmoored, casts about
on turbulent waves of the past
across limbs entangled,
Champagne stories bubble up,
rich with association
but devoid of context,
releasing pungent histories
in time suspended.
Claw, bite, choke, pound, bind, impale
flying armadillo and kitty with no name.
to purse lips,
to hold tongue,
that the moon
may again wax and wane,
illuminating the reckless carnival of my…
When my son was young,
he would come to me,
and I would take him up into my arms
and hold him
until the world seemed safe again.
I want nothing more
than to take my hurting boy
up into my arms
and hold him
until the world seems safe again,
but I can’t.
My arms hang useless
at my sides
my god does not speak;
my ancestors stand silent;
but my childhood friends,
to a little girl,
who sought invisibility.
they offer pieces of myself,
sequestered in a red box,
bundled carefully with ribbon,
nestled beneath your resting hand,
born in the shared scars of that mad rush to freedom,
rendered in a query about “the cute girl with pigtails.”
you usher me into your homes,
i am wrapped in your stories,
the laughter of your children,
the constancy of your canine companions.
i recall the words said,
with child’s earnesty,
“i will love you forever,”
and i have held
close to my heart,
safe against the erosion
of time and distance.
held me close
was never once imagined,
during this lifetime of lonely wanderings.
like the navaho vessel on my father’s desk,
an antiquity in black clay,
reassembled from a multitude of shards,
carefully fitted together,
i find i am more whole than shattered,
and that while light still seeps through the cracks
of missing pieces,
i am solid enough to cast a shadow.
He bangs through the door,
“Work shirts! WORK SHIRTS!”
I shrug my shoulders;
no point in stating the obvious.
There are more dirty dishes
stacked up on the kitchen counters
than clean ones in the cabinets.
The clothes hamper in the bathroom
towers high as my chest.
He has just used the last clean towel.
and grant writing proofs,
gasp for secure purchase on the computer table.
Flash card detritus
and fabric remnants
blanket the floor.
Sleep comes like the west Texas weather,
absent from imagination’s horizon,
then swamping the shoreline of consciousness,
Synesthetic braille dots
force a foreign order
on my dreams,
tactile communication flooded with color,
I fall though memory’s trapdoor
to early childhood,
struggling to control letter formation with an oversized pencil,
letters that pushed and pulled,
attracted and repelled,
like recalcitrant magnets
beneath blunt lead,
despite physical commitment to my Big Chief tablet,
warred and frolicked through my taxed retina,
defying static relationship.
The “e” in print is a plundering brute;
The “e” in braille is musical and light.
He has found a shirt
and left for work
with a smile trace.
previously unsettled by his rampage,
are again lounging.
I have filled the kitchen sink with soapy water;
dishes soak in anticipation.
The empty washing machine awaits a load;
the laundry he has hurled into the dog run during his frantic search
I will continue to ignore the floor,
as its state is self-perpetuating.
I will take a moment for imposing order
into brailled chaos.
I’m thinking wife number one is the smart one.
She wasn’t at the wedding today.
For that matter,
I have never even met her.
But the mother of the bride was there.
She is wife number two.
The mother of the sister bridesmaid was there.
She is wife number three.
I am wife number three.
The Russian wife was there.
She is wife number four,
And by some strange twist,
My ex-wife as well.
The pastor went on
About how marriage is between a man and a woman
A man and a woman
A man and a woman
As my bisexual daughter and her transgendered lover,
Though at a distance,
Faced each other
With not flicker of…
The bride looked like a fairy tale princess come to life,
Breaking the image only occasionally,
With loud, nervous laughter.
Though I have seen her from time to time,
Over the years,
In my mind she remains the vivacious six year-old I cared for during summers.
That is the age she was when
Her father abandoned her.
He told me it wasn’t my business.
He told me she wasn’t my child.
I sent her a Christmas card every year,
Ascribed it to her then infant half-sister,
So she would know I was thinking of her.
He was there of course,
Surrounded by his hareem, past and present.
By the ones that had a socially mentionable title anyway.
Three of the children were there.
The one that is never spoken of was,
She doesn’t know she was missing,
Any more than her siblings know she exists.
The one who is disowned and disowning,
Was not there either.
He was asleep in his mother’s house.
How do you build trust,
Understand commitment and consistency
When these are words from a pastor’s mouth
Rather than a reality you have ever seen