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No Apologies

Cut the Hydrangeas down right before spring
They must shed the wilted brown pompoms 
Even though they made it through the winter
Those wicked brown bunny tails are dead
Dead and done and not going to bloom again
Snip the stem at the juncture and the bush will 
Bud in new directions this year and who knows 
What colors will emerge from the green.
There are so many lives in this window box. 
So many years of not knowing what's next
Suppose that this season brings freedom from 
Forgiving. What if this time the bush blooms red?
Imagine a crown of scarlet hydrangea puffs
Bouncing on the head of the Equinox Queen 
This September. What if this time around there are no
Flowers at all just a blur of leaves scorched in 
The city's summer heat bouncing off the sidewalk
Cooled by a shadow cast by a watering can?
Suppose this is the last year for apologies.
No apologies and no flowers, just juicy berries 
Falling out of the window box and onto the 
Sidewalk, sticking to the soles of shoes 
Smelling like rot and feeding the squirrels.
There are so many maybes hiding in this box
Once we cut down the Hydrangeas.
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Call Me Sweet

Hot soles rub out
on parquet
Muscles yield
Ripen by fascia
Go soft
Tackiest leatherbound basketballs
Lose grip
Leak air
Cede dimension
Tight webs of nylon
go slack with penetration 
Form holes
Are ripped from their perch
Replaced
Lessons
Hard like bibles
Hard like heads
Collided without intention 
of a kiss 
Hands smack backboards
Because layups don’t count
if you can’t
beat glass
Hard because soft
is harder
won
Pound the ball
Crash boards
Take charges
Initiate contact
Drive your shoulder into his chest
Hard enough
to make space
Not so violent
he earns sympathy
Call me soft
or sweet
Blame me for your losses
Know that I still dance
Through the defence
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FEBRUARY 3


There are times 
in everyone's lives
that require being surrounded
by those you hold
or by those you feel held by
to step up, be real,
or in any case
just be open, warm.
All of us possess
a modicum of inwardness
but dividing attention
is still the real art form,
fecklessness isn't that...
life is hard enough to
keep triggering gewgaws
on your mantelpiece
it isn't expanding,
its demanding- demeaning
subtracting meaning.
It's as though the outside cold 
wasn't enough
for these winters.

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New Ghosts

I'm already dead
But I'm a cute ghost like Casper
They don't really make cute lady ghosts, do they?
They are all moaning like Myrtle
Or haunted and roaming on moors
I'm a new type of faustina
The kind you can drink a beer with
And as you watch the liquid froth
In my translucent stomach
We can talk about all the places
You have yet to travel
I can't come with you, though.
I'm tied here to the place I died.
Don't worry, I'm fine here
Watching it all work itself
Around my shimmering form
I'll still be waiting when you get back
And we'll talk about how alive you felt
Learning new ways to say, "It tastes delicious."
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Landlocked

Being landlocked was never a bad thing.
The ocean only brought wild-haired
Salted skin tribes and cheap fish.
There was nothing out there to discover.
The mystery was less intriguing than
The sure flow of the rivers dividing nations.
No one longed for a beach vacation when
The air was so pure and the views so
Strategic in the hills. They built cities
In the valleys and let them take root.
Boats were smaller and streams flowed
Exactly where they were supposed to go.
The expansive landmasses left so much to
Be discovered right here, right where you are. Right where you needed to be.
Did seafaring give you a better understanding of who you are? Are you satisfied knowing what it feels like, the wind filling your sails?
Do you ever miss the mystery of dawn
Over  hills you could climb blind?
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Another timeline

In another timeline,
I flew home to be at the deathbed.
I brought good, cheap wine
And macarons along.
In another timeline,
Begun at the juncture
Of here and there
I never left Pennsylvania
So I never came back.
There's this other world
In which we never tried
And failed to start a family
So we never had to redefine
And disintegrate what we are.
But there are no other routes
I could have followed
To arrive in this bed
In this dim light
Next to this unexpected body.
In another timeline,
I'm wishing I had this.


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Posted by nah

THE SYLVIA SCHOOL FOR BOYS


Recall sing song science -- and what nerves, or brains, or glands are -- ludicrously paint lines between globs and the feeling: hungry, lonely, whatever. Watch TV and pause at a scene where there is some resonant product placement, maybe The Yellow Wallpaper, maybe the Lyft app open on a an iPhone. Think about anyone who ever took care of you, and how you felt they did it wrong. Think about someone who did not follow the plan, who did not get the memo, who kept doing things in a way that made sense to them but not you and how angry that really really really made you. Then think about how getting angry makes you angrier than the original anger. Consider how any person is a child, always. Snot in nose,  spit in mouth, womb to tomb. Sing the Pokemon theme song. Repeat forever.
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Low-lying land

Kids in Tuvalu, they are in second grade
learning about emigration, what it means
to be an emigrant, to be submerged
in a new culture that isn't yours
because your birthright
is underwater
The government is planning
for the expatriation of its
10,000 remaining citizens
refugees fleeing a slow flood
of saltwater irrigation
and long goodbyes
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On to February

January nights were made
for lounging on car hoods,
ashing in the old snow
shimmering under fields of stars
feeling contained
in midwinter middle america
Poor January.
It doesn't snow anymore and
everyone's quit cars and smoking.
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A Bigger Pot

The desk plant
is getting woody.
It is the first thing
I haven't killed
in years.
Mint, the fish,
vials of sperm,
my marriage,
all wilted under
my black thumb
but this stubborn
succulent
needs a bigger pot.
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Any Fool

My shadow self is needy
And dying to be cared for.
She will go to where the otters are
Floating on the calm waters
Out past the breaking waves
Earnestly splashing
She will touch them
And she will want to drown
Oh, but she's the shadow
of a very strong swimmer
and this goddess, supernatural
will make it back to shore just fine.
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Posted by nah

FOUNDATIONAL LOVE NARRATIVE


None of it makes sense 
but I do it anyways
little drunk wolf eyes peering out 
from inflamed lids
you’re all grayness and redness 
half alive but I feel so 
alive with you
like a kiddo my laughter 
comes out water 
sparkling sprinkler waves
a whole monumental fountain 
for public bathing 
unafraid except of want -- 
knowing it might 
take me across
and then how would I 
get back

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Posted by nah

EMERALD CITY FUNERAL MARCH


I can still see your house 
from mine
and the chasm where 
the post office was
the hill was important
crucial blackberry zone
lies about the Dairyqueen parking lot 
terminal gasps of a city
black eyed susan deadhead stalks 
salmon metaphors work good 
where did the people go
where do they come from
the river is on fire but 
the fish stay put 
glass and glass and glass 
the tank outside of the classroom
if you were good you got to 
monitor the eggs, wait for growth
lazy daze walks up and down
tracking signs that claim
how much time is left
Dis N That boutique, Pho Beef Noodle
the Starbucks on Rainier 
saintly status now that it’s gone
old men played dominoes there
the new place is OK if you’re willing 
to be a computer - like me today -
I opted for the chrome as well
it contrasts with white tile
so clean, the pastel autumn palette 
of fibrous garments
fresh metropolitan motherhood
ochre, salmon, pale ass sky blue
me too! again, and also
but childless baby spice
pigtails and fine lines
antioxidants and lip smackers
anyways I can still see
your house from mine
the Jo Jos we ate on the curb
the ways we are the same
coat our fingertips in seasoning 
it works for a second 
devour the crumbs
as everything passes

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Haiku 2

You left your imprint
Dry saliva on my cheek
I can't stop smiling
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January 31 Poem: Last


Started slowly
uncertain and unclear

Managed to make it
half-way

Keep moving on
Light lifted from grey

Now the end is near
and "last" is the final word I hear
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Doves

The only sound that day was chickens
Determined clucking sticking to the hillside
Oh, the wind that day, too
Finding spaces between branches  to whistle
It all died down, the whistles, the clucks,
When your corpse slid onto the screen
Dead and somewhat purple
Cheeks caved in as an old chapel
Dedicated to saints we don't pray to anymore
Maybe Julian the Hospitaler
Patron of pilgrims and childless people.
Or Peregrine, probably,
Who prayed his cancer away.
The chickens, the wind,
They know when you need a moment.
And then that dove, on the summit,
Circling my head like a mirage.

I dreamed I was on my pilgrimage.
I left early in the evening
From a Spanish albergue
And there were chickens in my way.
I picked one up and wrapped her in my arms
Her body more fragile than expected
Her trust much easier to earn than I deserved.
I whistled as I walked to the beat of clucking
And I did not think, "I'm glad I am not dead."

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Posted by nah

PICKUP STICKS


old man hands
thick with water
fast like hummingbirds
sometimes your hair
stands straight up
I laugh because
I love you and 
it’s funny how 
my caring 
is so caged
then releases
in these happy 
cascades like
the trippy, skippy 
walks home 
past all  the curtained 
living rooms 
of tired people 
watching things

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Posted by nah

arrange coaster fragments
call it a poem
scatter ant poison 
call it a poem
split the tip
call it a poem
stab the blood blister
call it a poem
cry while you run
call it a poem
do bathtub laundry
call it a poem
take ragged selfies
call them each poems
what if you were courageous
call it a poem
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January 30th: Maybe



Jotting down notes
while plans are up in the air
ready to drop and land on my head
"BONK!"

I feel wavering "yes"es fall around me
and splash into growing puddles of "maybe"s
forming beneath my feet

only

I sink like a boat struggling
on its final voyage
in a sea of "no"s
that drown those
once-so-sure plans
in the darkest depths of
unpromised tomorrows

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If You Took Cooking Away From Me

I don't make lists anymore,
every new dish a dawn,
and events the practise
of mirror movements,
synchronous with the ghost
trailed last one,
are we catching up
did we fall behind,
but this too will pass,
everything will be ready,
taste buds fried,
like retinas by the sun.
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