I go weeks
months
even
without noting
your presence
or absence
but then
there You are
in my awareness again,
wandering
around in me
and then
there I am
wondering
what You are
or aren’t
[going to be]
to me
One-derlust
mason
the art
I’m conjuring
creating
constructing
may
hurt
you
but
it is
not[hing]
for
about
[to] [do] with
you
where I am
you cannot be
where I stand
there is no room
where I go
you cannot come
what I know
you cannot know
the space in me you long ago preempted
to over-fill with you
and later
cut,
carved
and
hollowed out
I’ve begun filling and patching with
my Self
by myself
and my mortar is nearly set
Open
I walk bare
out in the open
on borrowed land|stolen
to be returned to the people, to all be-ings, to them
with my bones or ash interred, one day
the Sun, Moon, Rain, Wind, Clouds, Sky and Stars
kiss me at all hours
did you see me open up
this Autumn?
after a Summer spent crying,
wet, yet fruitless
spent Spring wading into lies instead of soft blossoms and new grass
Winter approaches, maybe the frost will kill this disease,
for good
For now, I bathe
nearly naked in sunshine, cold rainstorms, wetland pools and moonlight
unapologetically
|out in the open|
unabashedly
baptising
my face,
hair,
and eyes,
my breasts
vulva
and legs,
my lips,
throat,
spine,
and my wild heart
ceremonially, first
with wine, like Magdalene, anointing and anointed,
in the name of the mother, Sun and holy ghosts
|cabernet henna|
then, with rainwater from the willow’s edge, like Ophelia,
lying in the woodland and meadow, flooded
to cleanse or drown [to be, or not to be]
in the name of the Moon
|I ponder the stone cistern laden with glacial deposits and ruminant bones|
the woodland is abundant with new mushroom, new overnight growth
[puhpowee]
the hint of ancient circles supplants my judgment with instinct
and overrides decorum with new delights
| and old delights, revisited |
an aged grapevine is rooted deep, climbing, trailing, snaking
hidden in plain sight, everywhere
and I’ve intuited It as Ol’ Scratch,
I take a hatchet to quell Its influence, here
You,
Your windows are not true eyes
Your lamps are not enlightenment
So, bless the dark
of the night
of the country night sky
And the Moonset
of my moon
it’s been decades,
but
this place wants to birth or impregnate me,
and I want that too
i want it to
|I come here and open up|
Violets: a true loss story
The violets that remind you of your dear
great grandmother’s dining room
on Oakdale Avenue
African violets in purple, lilac, lavender, and pink on a plant stand near a dark window by the olive green telephone on the wall
The Violets that remind you of your first, truest love’s breath
Lavender-perfumed chalky candy squares
Choward’s Mints in dark purple foil sleeves
from the corner store
/
But you were not one of their truest loves
//
the once-loving matriarch forgot you when the child stolen from El Salvador arrived
a baby smuggled across nations
yet, this was not a rescue mission for an orphan, no, this boy had a living mami
instead, it was a long distance shopping trip for a wom[b][an] whose insides were spoiled by lust and greed
For one who coveted, but then drowned in the role of motherhood
yet she still swam deep in men,
floated in luxurious possessions;
the old woman was no longer your “grammaw”
but the boy’s “Mimi” – solely, wholly his
she once accused you,
of lifting $20 from her purse on the night you ran away from home
& snuck in her house
to
pee
an unfathomable indictment
while her [other] [grand]daughter
poached a baby, kited checks, pocketed jewelry and defrauded the Chicago Housing Authority
Mimi was silent, or complicit all those times
You, on the other hand, never stole a coin, or a child – or a permanent part of anyone’s heart
in 1999,
you still went to her home, anointed her hands and face with oil and tenderness,
preparing her living body for the
grave,
while telling her you loved her so much, truthfully.
You went because you knew
Instinctively
that she was dying alone
her violets were wilting fast
she foreseeing her ghostly humiliation before the coroner’s eyes
violets thirsty and unpruned from the neglect of her intentionally chosen beloveds and heirs – those who shared
her house and purse and heart
She died the very next day
///
The Violets that remind you of Him,
your first love,
of his breath and kisses in a dark gangway or anywhere hidden
that sweet ingredient imbued in the deep amalgam of his scent
a pheromonic candy –
veritably, His signature
His seduction
yet those same Violets remind Him only
of his first, unrequited, true love
he, pining for a brown-eyed, olive-skinned , spaniard, brunette girl
who virginally metamorphised into a pregnant, 16 year-old sacred cow
She only loved boys with slicked-back, jet black hair, the ones who wore silky shirts and baggies
she parted her lips and hips wide O P E N
but only for boys with names like Erasmo, Jorgey, Hector
She made Him godfather to the baby boy instead of the father or stepfather
He wanted to be,
despite his bended knee, promises,
and all the begging, lusting, cuckolding, and undying loving
Silly [yt] rabbit.
He still scours corner and liquor stores for the rare Violets to send to Her by mail, innocently asking the substitute “her” for postage, a box, and oh, some packing tape?
The first Her is slick, sick, broke(n) and old
but She is still the most beautiful of face, skin, voice and heart – to Him
He keeps ancient yarn ribbons from Her hair in a treasure box in their now broken home
photos of their adventures and of their Golden Boy texted to Her in the moment – instantly sent to the Gulf Coast –
to garner Her sunny emoji smiles and shallow sentiments xoxoxo ♥️♥️♥️😊🙂😘
While the substitute her bares her real teeth and her cloudy emotions in the moments lost;
“smile — you’re joyless”; insult to injury
now, she just looks and laughs
at the pathetic rabbit – holding his smartphone
a pseudo-Nicholas Sparks romantic with Her,
but He forgot the poem you wrote Him just last year, on his birthday – Agape
////
To the one dead and to the one living :
Violets remind me of you
/////
(Pray that ash takes its place, soon
Or that I relocate in space, soon)
le claire [street]
A clear glimpse
A clear thought
on this clear June night
Of age,
and Alzheimer’s
An old-timer’s disease
A clear memory recorded and archived tonight
An acute awareness of myself
tonight, in time and place
a new track to play on loop for a listener in my future life
a husband, friend, or son
a caregiver, a kind one
a visitor, volunteer, or nurse,
a grandson, or maybe, no one
A reddish dog, eating mulberries
from the sidewalk in shadows
Mottled concrete in the dim light of a city street lamp
obscured by the canopy of that beautiful, June, fruit tree
A woman, middle aged, seems so young, even a tad pretty, in her mind’s eye
Stretching her still strong body upward for plump, dark berries
Reaching for branches trimmed too high by the urban foresters
or arborists or surgeons, I forget what they’re called
On her tippy toes
grabbing, pulling, picking
squeezing the dog’s leash between her thighs
don’t get loose in the dark, don’t get skunked in the dark
Some of the best ones are lost in the awkward tussle
before she can palm them, save them, taste them
She triggers a reverberative rain from boughs on high
That precise, delicate sweetness of the bounty in her mouth
The dog’s belly full of the ripe windfall
sustained by both gravity and woman
His name was Woody, or Digby, I think
He used to climb into our sleep
Smashed and whole
The street, sidewalk and cars stained
by the impressive purple mess
the dark grass hiding perfect treasures for doves tomorrow morn
She and that dog
Always urban foragers and gleaners in June
All month long, her fingertips, heels and lips
tinted with their fuchsia dye, didn’t think to check his paws
A clear, melancholy recollection
This day, that day was also her son’s birthday
The first birthday he spent away from home, Nebraska, or Alaska, I think
That glorious tree, that good dog, that golden boy
The Accidental Seeker 