The Poetry Marathon

Stardust, are we?

Sand to be sprinkled

as salve over weary eyes,

lay your body down

be held

in the tender

arms of sleep—

we are stardust

They stood at the kitchen window
and absent-mindedly
tested the tenderness,
pushing a burly
farm-tested thumb
through the skin
of the overripe avocado,
then went on watching
the crows scatter
newly planted seeds
in the dewy morning light

In my curiosity,

I steal glances

of you, always askance

I skirt you,

reading the summary

in the size of your steps,

the gaiety in your gait,

how often you mop

your brow

One observant

almond-shaped eye

grazing your frame

I’m just checking

whether I should ask:

Are you OK?

They moved purposefully

to a rainy place

finding it quite fitting

A witchy boichild

with razor mind

fell in love with this city

In their hand, they clutch

a polka dot umbrella

and hunch beneath its bow

The persistent grey

dampening both anticipation

and disappointment

with clouds low

I hear it’s best to practice every day

in the morning, journal splayed out

just to the left of the cracked mug

you hang on to for sentimental reasons

They say, let the ink of your favorite pen

skate across the page in an unbroken line—

capturing each thought that drifts by

allowing it to have its moment

This is what I’ve heard, anyway

I know a few people chipping away at the marble,

chiseling chapters as they go. Some are strafing potters,

running their hands from bottom to top,

smoothing out the wrinkles with each pass—

at times creating more chaos in their wake

I am a bystander to their Herculean efforts,

cheering them on, suggesting sharper synonyms,

checking in on the antics of the side characters,

and fishing for a mention in their acknowledgments

They ask me when I will start my book

Repeatedly, I raise a hand to wave them off my trail

of brimming notebooks, coffee-stained prose,

and half-baked premises. Don’t you see

the safety cones? You can’t walk there yet!

It’s riddled with plot holes—the world has yet to be built!

They say, I already sound like an author

I’ve walked the walls

a thousand times

Traced the lines

Between you and me

Through quiet halls

a river city sleeps

The intersections filled with signs

on abandoned streets

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

Is there anybody home?

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

So, I know I’m not alone

We could be a constellation

A single moment full of life

One big terrestrial formation

To illuminate the night

Won’t you turn your lights on

Hold a lighter in your hand

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

Crank the brightness on your phone

Just for a minute

Turn your lights on

And see no one is alone

I’d set myself to composing an anthem,

a song of wholeness and reconnection,

I deconstructed the bops that moved me.

It didn’t come easy—

we wrestled in rounds for two weeks

my face repeatedly smashed into the stone

I was so close to giving up.

There are no angels in this story,

just personal demons on one shoulder,

on the other Mary Oliver and found family

trained in the art of luring the lightning into bottles

It took a spin in the cosmic Yahtzee cup (not stirred)

and by the machinations of the universe,

the constellations aligned just right

Through the flickering beam of light

emerged my face, the one I wore months ago,

the size of a billboard rocking out on the big screen

As the video finished, the crowd applauded

I fished the pockets of my fanciest jacket,

scrawled with gold, to blot away the rivulet of tears

pulled out of me by seeing and hearing myself

so big, claiming my chosen given name aloud

Hi, my name is [screech cough cough gag]

I am a cryptid

a nocturnal shapeshifter

many think I don’t exist

but, um, hello, hi?

Welcome to my cave—

urhm, do you mind taking off your shoes?

Yes! That’s my comic book collection

Have you read this one?

No, I highly recommend their work,

top notch character development

and the illustrations are to die for!

Oops [accidently slaps interviewer and knocks over a lamp]

I don’t actually open the wings very often.

Sometimes they just, you know,

spring right open when I get excited or upset—

where are my manners!

Would you like something to drink?

It’s been so long since I’ve had company.

[turns on wall torch, sound of running water]

My cavemates do most of the decorating

They’re [whispers] daylight creatures,

I try to keep it down [gestures with one formidable claw]

You like?

The kitchen is just to die for!

[wings spring open, knocks kettle off the stove]

Ugh, I am such a clutz!

[sitting down in an armchair for tea and a plate of cookies]

So, ask away! What would you like to learn about me?

You think you can come into this cave

And try to get a rise out of me!

Well, doesn’t that beat all!

It’s always, “Can I see your fangs?”

“Where do you put the bodies?”

“How do you *whispers* ‘do it’?”

[sigh] No one ever asks about my hobbies.

It’s time for you to go. Why?

[stands up to full height, speaks with the booming voice of 100 creatures]

I find you rude, I am suddenly very hungry,

And I just cleaned this carpet.

[interviewer leaves a string of apologies on their race to the door]

Score! Papa’s got a new pair of shoes.

[Distant cavemate: [SHRIEK COUGH COUGH GAG] Can you please keep it down! Not everybody’s nocturnal]

END SCENE

When I looked into my crystal ball,

casting a line out ahead of me

into the rippling waters of the future,

I saw a dense fog, locked boxes—

inaccessible things

There was little solace in these visions

no receipts nor guarantees

that things will turn out positively—

best to assume Death,

says the winding of a busy mind

In the evening, I watch the birds on the line

keeping an ear to the tunes

shuffling through headphones

for some good news—a paltry portent,

or a teensy, wee glimpse behind the veil

On the occasion, I am permitted a peek

just an inch in front of my nose

I can just make out the shape of things

And the faintest waft of freesia and jasmine

through fastened keyholes

I’ve grown more comfortable

with leaving well enough alone

until there’s a tug on the line

prompting me to again ask:

What’s next?