Walk

(an imitation poem)

Wait until the house is silent before leaving. In the cold, becomes part of
your bones. Touch, branches like limbs. How long until we cry. How long
until we are touched. What is cold and what is warm in the forest. It means
nothing. Salty rising anxiety, a silent phone, plaid flannel. And know when you
return, know there is no one waiting.

what has been done

late at night i see
the spiders crawling on the windowframe
when i moved in
covered with snow
the nights long
and with the oncoming storm
and pumpkin everything
i wonder
what has been done

push & pull

(I'm not dead..just very busy. Yay!)

Wrap me in solitude so thick, the milk drips from my spoon.

I curl in the wings that started growing in my back

That I’m allergic to

And like fur against

Condensation sticky skin

I push

And somewhere

You fall.

memo

I want to write fables for my grandchildren and their daughters and sons, but I won’t. They will have difficulty understanding them. The trees I planted didn’t come with instruction manuals and the lines of code for the outdated machines had worn away. Pen ink leaves permanent marks on palms and graphite wears away too fast. Voices crack and falter. They wouldn’t understand anyway.

virgil

Your spine cracked

like the binding of the books

you stretched upon

asking me to read you

like lines of Virgil

and I know you

watched that man

wearing the dirty trench coat

and like a blind man

your hesitant palm to mine

reading into the future

talking of things to come

flocks of grey geese

born with knowledge of ponds and lakes

of where they are supposed to be

but some don’t follow

black sheep

with feathers

your smile

falters.

okay

I remember

the worn cotton feel

bitter chocolate taste

story-telling sound

But

I also remember

the rainy day memory

the tip of your tongue speech

painful procedure face

clueless frightened smile

So yes

I think

I’m okay

after all.

detour

I watched
you crack open
redemption
from your chest
as if it
were your heart. My
sleeves were soaked
with chicken broth
from sick
Sundays. When I
smiled, smoke
escaped through
my teeth. Your
iron lung coughed
then sputtered
before
you took
a sharp breath
of smoke.