Happy Monday, everybody! I know things have been a little different around here. Unfortunately, I came down with a bit of a nasty throat cold that’s been throwing off my regular update schedule. I hope you all have been enjoying the poetry!
Looking for something to read? In April, my flash fiction story “Reborn” was published on Fireside Fiction. You no longer have to have a subscription, so now it is free to read! Check it out and tell me what you think!
Fireside Fiction is a great publication, and if you can throw any support their way, it would be super appreciated. Take a look at their Support page to learn more.
It’s a sunshine yellow block of clay
And there is hardly anyone there, foreign and
Even more quiet because you are the only ones
Except for a child that hits a note over and over again,
Melody of discontent.
There’s food but it’s not what you ordered
And bullets litter the lot outside
Like wishes, like stars.
A car backfires
And speeds away.
The next day
It’s a hard, black glass box
And it’s full and getting fuller, with expressions
That box you out and deny you your own
Except for when they have their noses in their coffee,
Discord of judgement.
There’s a breakfast plate and it is perfect
And the cars line up outside
Like knives, like bodies.
A door jingles
And closes behind you.
When the leaves ash and the sun retires
As dark-tipped birds cross the threshold of forever
Sometime between when the moon speaks
And the quiet clouds open up to sing
And the chill air rolls across the glen
Between the charcoal black touch of burnt fingertips
Around and about the uneasy stay
Of northern light and comets
She will stand at the edge of tomorrow,
Holding fast her chariot of snow rabbits
Until they will conquer the world
With icy smiles and frosted glee.
Before I knew anything about you
I knew that compared to the length of anything
The time we would have would be
A passing thought
A single hair
A dust mite suspended in light.
In our last hours
I traced the curve of your spine
The barest nothing of your leg
And under the thin veil of skin
I could just feel your heart.
Your breaths, slow
Your eyes, blink
And I am towering over and above you —
I am the world and you are
And for all the might of a god
I am struck by the significance of
What would be a tiny drop of blood
Pumping through a pea,
That I loved more
And miss more
Than a hundred like it.
With jumper and blouse and plaid
Ugly and uniform
In the dim-dark, four-sided chapel
With forget-me-not blue stained glass
The plastic beads in tiny fingers
Speaking in unison.
With busted jaw and hurt lungs and black
Unwashed and loose
In the yellow light, busted interior
With urine-soaked walls
The wooden bits between calluses
Calling out alone.
All the words are the same
But the seasons have changed,
Morning and noon and night
Each moon a shadow of its former self
Mother, may I? Will you be there?
When the words have changed from a chant
To a scream
To a whisper?
I blow on the bubble wand twenty-nine times
And each string of opalescent considerations
Floats out and away
And while some catch in updrafts
Others head over to the neighbor’s yard
With whom I have had a limited number of interactions
And I imagine a police car zipping up to the curb and being told
From the sidewalk
“Ma’am, we’ve gotten some complaints about bubbles.”
And I say
“If people have so little to worry about in their lives
That they have time to be concerned about
More air than substance
There but for the grace of God go them.”
Speaking of which
As I’m standing in the gray evening of
Twenty degrees below usual
Milkweed drifts in
Following the same path as the crystalline orbs
And I can’t tell the difference between them in the fading daylight
So I feel a bit better
Knowing I’m not the only one trying to have a little fun.