POEM A DAY 2020

No Apologies

Cut the Hydrangeas down right before spring

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."

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Haiku 2

You left your imprint
Dry saliva on my cheek
I can't stop smiling

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."

Farts, etc.

My family tree drops its leaves
around 60, with any luck.
My middle age has brought me
eyes that water in the winter
so lovers tell me not to cry
and I protest that these tears
don't reveal my sadness.
There is an atmosphere
similar to an inner-ring planet
that floats around my stomach
Venus or something gaseous
I choose to hold it in or not
depending on who is near me
whom i want to impress
and how fast i am walking

Seaside

My windswept heart
Has adapted to the climate
And become a barrier island
Full of dunes,
Full of dunes.

This one's about Anger

I'm slow to it
And when I find it
It feels too heavy to hold
The moon must wane
The sun has to set
I prick this rage with needles
And let it deflate
Oh, but it fills the air
All around us
Shit.
I didn't think about this.
I wade through it still holding
The flaccid rubber shell
This was not well-planned.

Self-sufficient Woman

Let's talk about the word save
Being saved
It doesn't mean weak
Being saved
Happens when you take a risk
Savery follows bravery
When there was no one to belay you
And you could not foresee the danger
Or prepare for your own rescue.
Being saved!
An act of intimacy that bonds
Heroes with heroes
Gods and goddesses
Even Zeus was saved
And survived on goat milk
And I am not ashamed
Of my history or my need
Or my word choice.

Tirana, Albania

Oh
My god
I spend so much time
Doing geography quizzes
On the internet
When I could be applying
To grad school maybe
Because there is something
So comforting
In knowing
Really knowing
And not doubting
That the capital of Albania
Is Tirana.
One time I even
Wrote to Google
To tell them their cover photo
For Tirana
Is actually Prishtina
(The capital of Kosovo).
They haven't changed it yet.
Listen, it's just great
To be sure of something.

Confession

Remember that time I told you
I wanted to talk
I was scared
I was failing at finding
The labyrinth exit
And the Minotaur
Wasn't you
And you could have told me
It's ok
These monsters are scary
And you could have told me
About your own
Troubled navigation
That we are both flawed heroes
But instead
We fucked like possession
We fucked like grief
Like you and us were distinct
Entities and you controlled
The sluice house
You fucked me like you owned me
Like no it's me your monster
And I'm still so sad about it
This isn't really a poem
It's just my confession
I know you won't find it here

This Sadness II

I don't want to flee the sadness
I want to run from everything
that isn't isn't consumed by it
I want to escape the routine
That isn't crying ugly
That is emailing blueprints
That is adding superwoman songs
To playlists that get us through
I don't want to get through
I want to disappear to a place
Where I can carry this sadness
In my boots for miles like a pebble
I want to leave thread in the blister
So the sadness seeps out all day long
I want to talk about nothing else
But my sticking soaking wet socks
I'm not trying to bury the sorrow
I want to wear it like a cape that
Flutters around my ankles, trips me,
Keeps me warm during lonely nights
Which are most nights now
No, I don't flee in these dreams
I sink up to my neck chin nose

Flutters

July in the north country

Vegetable Drawer

Remember that time
you fucked me
with a frozen zucchini?
We both thought
the frost would lend strength
(you were afraid of the
squash snapping in half)
Neither of us foresaw
My cunt going numb
so I couldn't feel
And the frozen flesh
turning to mush

This Sadness

I'm going to sink my teeth into it
And shake it
Until it stops twitching
And hangs limp between my jaws
Oozing
Grim and grizzly
And mine.