Herself
She wielded what she hoped would be her children’s
vulnerability, wheezed near weeds disguised
as her good intent. She practiced seeming
thoughtful, better described as ought-ful only
slightly to the right of what she thought her right
to shuffle feelings of offspring who failed
to bow to her varietal maternity
foisted on each in elaborately
different ways. Would-be gifts sifted through
gritted teeth ripe to leave bitemarks anywhere
exposed. A husband ago she in her own
mind vouchsafed to tap the shoulders of each spoke
of resultant appearing likeness spawned
then shouldered unwanted for requisite decades
Ode to a Utility Infielder
Handsome utility infielder
dependably won't draw a crowd.
Stands unthanked as a father,
sturdy, always there,
picking up tasks: shortstop,
the forgotten second base, third,
equally fluent in all. Fans fill the stands
to watch the starting pitcher,
perhaps the outfielder,
while this handyman
like a Buddha
unhands any tendency
to worship one MVP
as if a god, as if one
might confuse oneself
with such a deity.
Parting Such Orderly Sweet
We keep a good long melody in the glove compartment to preserve the apartment from littery things lacking any semblance of orderliness. He was just an orderly you decried for someone’s not being a doctor. I protested out of ignorance, starting at the top with the name middled on parchment with thin signature beneath. I believed in him despite your relieving me of the duty of love. And about that enclosure: it’s as unrosy as compost and just that hopeful. Hope lies upon the staff where whiffs of notes momentarily reside. I’m listening, as the call-in shrink would say to the air full of audience that sustained his paycheck, reruns yielding royalties. Speaking of which, keep singing unaccompanied, for I have always loved your voice. Reminds of eastern screech owl from the oak trees at night in the woods where we lived. Nostalgia lacks facthood in the neighborhood of wooden fences punched together to deflect intrusion. Meanwhile, I small to the task of brushing away unlikely forays into repair work best performed by solo acts claiming to love their work alongside a lack of tact.
From Nebula #46
In whose image would you say film noir
caves to serotonin reuptake
inhibition? Would you prefer the down
days to play out? And do they know how to play?
The gas light gone extinct has blended into
that one word. Can you prove how it unbottled
you? Emptied self-trust to rust matching autumn
leaves already fallen early in the night?
What is it about black and white that draws you?
The folds of the clothing undisturbed by
color? The way the fabric falls from
the body, just far enough away to
distract from the animal within each of
us that allows the eyes to inspect
the threat perhaps inevitable
we teach ourselves to learn may be true?
Evening | Toned | Wings
Her evening reverie
a bone-toned
whisper of rosary
not the brown wood
that seeds hegemony
of Medjugorie
closer to swallows
rising with moon-
shaped wings firming
their blend that swerves
a mirror prayer
to her own
beads closed in
a louvered
drawer