The Poetry Marathon

13
2 tired 2 b funny 2nite
2 whoevr wants
just 2 tired
2 retired
2b d 1

12

in the closet

I want to walk thru like Narnia was on the other side

like it went to a safer place, or
was itself a refuge

door closed, hangers roosting on the rod like plucked seared birds, floor softened with layers of grampa’s clothes, scented with his body in the long ago times when things were only washed when they were dirty, not when they’d just been worn

now that’s something I can get behind- less laundry, longer wearing clothes, a less desperate mind

extraordinary in ordinary

we have worlds within, and history recapitulated from prehistory and mimicked in our selves

how the single-cell precursor was attacked by some bacterium, swallowed it and kept the best bits for itself, played reassembly and brought out the mitochondria, worlds smallest batteries, infinitely (or just about) rechargeable, rebootable, refoldable,

how in the end it unspindles and we die

10

heifer

she raised her head to watch me
prey animal to predator
when you know,
you know to keep an eye out against the new,
to be careful,
to hope for the handout of hay,
for the return to the herd
for the sweetness of salt
for the tender grass, good weather and not too many ticks

for sharper horns and a gentle bull
next time of her own breed
and a calf not too big to birth

for clear air and cooler weather

perhaps forgiveness

a beet red jacket, the easy tremor of leaves in the background, some exotic variety of bamboo grown to make a seasonal screen to hide the carport from the house and suddenly two giant swallowtail butterflies on my sleeve just above the elbow, their presence a gift, a lightbulb moment, almost

8

Joint custody

joint custody 2

it’s been long enough. I watch your chair for unauthorized activity, wait for the light to change, for the wall to dissolve in hot flowers, for the wind to weave another day of movement, laundry comes out of the dryer dirtier than it went in and I will make my own holidays. the funeral baked meats and someone’s marriage table

night crawls out of the window and over the floor. you blink at me again from under the moving grasses, from the place where the curtains hid in burning leaves and it’s been long enough. there is a place here I don’t fit, and I am holding the match

from Max Richter-On The Nature Of Daylight (entropy)

7

joint custody

the sunflowers are watching
the empty swing hangs heavy
in sultry air

it rained last week
the sunflowers are watching
the sandy path to the swing is undistubed

the rain erased her footprints
stalks have grown together in the field
the sunflowers are watching

Flat earth

today the earth turns a corner
parallel lines remain apart forever no matter how far we look

far is redefined with smoke, fire and asphyxiating air

the valleys have erased the trees and lakes and rivers we admired yesterday,
the side of the road is flattened, sky the mirror till the next corner
where the rock wall turns in an impossible angle
throws off shabby heat-dried grassy twiggy garments
shuffles the flaming rags to invisibility

another corner, a little farther down
a further immolation
black smoke pillar stark against the omnipresent grey
at its foot a burning seed
blue orange yellow
once a late model SUV,
roots past the melted tires
ignites the road
melts asphalt
crumbles cement
remakes the world

The mystery

The rest have left, their unspoken music still haunts the corners at the tops of the walls, catches then reverberates in the curves and hollows of the art glass shade and rattles the broken element in the fixture

And the taps are empty now, hoses hold only air, barrels still compressed and half full of belches and the quarrels of the slightly inebriated.

The others cleared off after one raised yet another opinion and that mother’s other baby (long since grown) found a bottle to break and swing and freckle the walls with, cloud the air with the last smoke they’d shared just outside the back door 5 minutes before

that nobody saw

4
On marriage

tying myself into the future
the taste of one mouth on mine
its truths sometimes
sometimes its own selfserving lies
sweet
sweet