“This used to be my playground” and our proxy for church on spring, summer and fall sabbaths
These were the halcyon days.
Load up the International Harvester TravelAll with wooden doors and quarter panels – it has two gas tanks, you know Bought it used, but pristine on payments – from the showroom on Logan Boulevard and Elston Avenue with zero credit history and all the usury
Have mercy.
Follow me, and I will make you fishers of fish
He will bait your hook on the bamboo pole he bought you Later, you will insist on the “Pocket Fisherman” – as seen on TV
“The Distances They Keep”, Howard Nemerov, the blue swallows, 1967
this is no time to evict spiders, centipedes, the occasional, lone boxelder bug, dozens of out-of-season ladybird beetles or the almost-always odorless stinkbugs
from our houses
to do so now means certain death, outside
there is a field mouse in the dormant compost bin depositing black “rice” in washed egg shells and pomegranate rinds/
a mole engineers deeply excavated burrows around the foundation (much too close), mound-builds in the prairie, and constructs a minefield for toes and ankles in the remnant, dumb lawn/
the grey squirrels shelter in the woods across the snow-covered dirt road the red squirrel in the barn is insulating with stuffing from the patio cushions/
black walnuts, please mast next year oak sapling, pray, grow faster/
i will plant a meadow exclusively of sunflower come Spring/
black-eyed juncos, black-capped chickadees, bluejays, woodpeckers, and cardinals, but especially, the juncos have learned to tolerate, and expect my winter presence among them, per nemerov’s counsel, i don’t wear feathers in my cap – or coat/
the remaining turkey and deer still grieving, post-hunting season are tentative, but returning; i set out stone salt licks and millet, reverently, repentantly, respectfully, for them/
i count the crows each morning but truer, i count on them their steady, regal presence their voices call to me for sardines, kibble, peanuts i oblige and always will
[can] we all [can] live here alongside inside and outside together, as kin
i don’t speak but i telepath that, and this:
i am the residuum here
a wolf spider and their reflection / every spider should be presumed to be an incarnation of Anansi
she gently pincers the end of ki’s gorgeous black tail
gingerly pulling kin off the road
redundantly committing ki’s spirit
to the universe, aloud
with apologies for humankind, silently
purposefully committing kin’s body
to a safer spot
for mourning
and carrion feast
Ki’s body was unexpectedly heavy
full of walnuts and seeds
fat and strong for a long winter ahead
so alive just minutes ago, I saw out the window
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
for me
for my kind
for our machines
for our structures
for our carelessness
for our selfishness
for all this,
engineered, manufactured, destroyed
the falling snow christens quick
she wanted to go inside
and sob
selfishly,
because the possibility
of an aberrantly painless holyday
ceased with the dead black squirrel
she wanted to go inside
to tell someone
but the only one
was a woman, one profoundly unwise
and living individually in the moment
dis-understanding
in the least way
every single day
she wanted to go inside
and forget
but death was also present there
old, not fresh, also unnatural
the not-a-Grandmother at the stove
the stench of a potful of bones, flesh and fat
boiling on the stove
a pig or two’s rib cage
in her favorite cauldron
the one she’d kept for vegetables only
she stays silent
swallows her heart and disappears
caw, caw,
caw-caw
the crows have shown up
for a still-warm, Christmas Eve dinner
My life seems long, I know
My body’s mostly worn
Inside, she’s just begun to live, again
A girl gone long ago
There are bottled laughs to voice aloud
New smiles to wear with these old shoes
Time to know the world, and you, and you, and you…
Between these peeling walls of muted hues
Once Herr died
My Self was ready to return
My cadence so shy and slow,
Lamenting the awkward waste of precious years
I find my voice as I write the past,
But in my book, the Tomorrow has no page
Forever winter approaches from within
These years and years upright on hard chairs
Unreal, unseen, unheard, untouched
by the world, by the womb, it may concern, Whom
I speak through and then beyond this pain of bone and life
Before the cold within brings silence of the tomb
You see, to me, my presence still feels warm, and blush
somehow, even new
My life stretched out behind me, no steps ahead
And I forestall Death’s cue, awaiting mere glimpse of you
If you can imagine, child
I love, unsaid,
I feel as just alive, as real, as you.
What remains, if it’s taken all away,
if I die or am killed today;
If I were never born today;
If I were reborn today;
If I were unborn today;
if I choose to strip all of it away,
if I strip It all away
I
strip
It
all
away
My birth;
My parentage;
My race;
My ethnicity;
My nationality;
My family history;
My name;
My family;
My childhood;
My background;
My home;
My neighborhood;
My city;
My country;
My back-story;
My culture;
My religion;
My friends;
My loves;
My partner;
My marriage;
My child;
My progeny;
My legacy;
My intellect;
My politics;
My beliefs;
My ethics;
My talents;
My labor;
My education;
My skills;
My occupation;
My associations;
My friendships;
My relationships;
My temperament;
My attitude;
My affection;
My cowardice;
My courage;
My humor
My hate;
My prejudice;
My justice;
My wins;
My losses;
My habits;
My flaws;
My knowledge;
My personality;
My indignation;
My judgment;
My judgments;
My action;
My inaction;
My anger;
My rage;
My compassion;
My strength;
My kindness;
My goodness;
My shame;
My joy;
My pain;
My ideas;
My words;
My speech;
My secrets;
My expression;
My face;
My body;
My womb;
My motion;
My taste;
My scent;
My touch;
My sound;
My body,
my temple
my aperture
my dwelling;
My mind;
My humanity;
My morality;
My dignity;
My presence;
My universe;
My heart;
My love;
My experience;
My gods;
My death;
Who am I
Without them?
What am I
Without them?
What remains, then,
without them?
Who remains, then,
without them?
Then What am I
Then Who am I
Who am I
What am I
Still am I?
am, I?
Am I
Am I, I
Am I Am
Am I sound
Am I essence
Am I origin
Am I alpha
Am I omega
Am I always
Am I all ways
Am I everything
Am I nothing
Am I every thing
Am I no thing
Am I light
Am I dark
Am I god
Am I energy
Am I vibration
Am I consciousness
the velveteen poet 