I thinkyou’re like spring umber--just a glimpse of youbefore all’s chartreuse.One minute you’re here,then away--and in the next, I realizeyou’ve always been gone.
As you believedthe egregious Miss Dshould have stopped for death--Reminded me that dashesas punctuationwere used by you for your ownnefarious purposes--I understood your meaningand expected you to snort.No cat’s pajamas! No sirree!You simply could not see it.Reflected that one never knowswho might be a worshipper--You forgave me, but never her--
Rhythmic back-seat sway& soft country musiclulls a small childto drowsinesswhile her parents talk up front.Beams across the headlinergrow in intensityawaking sleepy curiosityso she shifts to look aheadinto the darkness.White light eyes fly byagainst the treelinefaster and faster untilin the distance a creaturewith only one bright white eyebears down on the family car.Upon fearful questioningMama explains it’s a padiddle.That sounds friendly enough,but it looks really mean to her.
Uncomfort-able not knowingwhen but cer-tain (as canbe) the momentwill comewhen the other shoedramatic-ally drops
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| Photo by Marian Kent |
Feintbackbeforelosing hopeentirelyas withmourning blue buriesbetrayalsmount until too heavy to hold& limbs start breaking
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| (c) Karin Gustafson (all rights reserved) |
"All my poems are dark,"I said, "But people insistthere’s a bright lightradiating from within them."You said, "That’s the thingwith poems and housekeeping."
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| Challenge, Agnes Lawrence Pelton (1940) |
There are birds of preycaged in the parkwhere after train rideskids sought a sojourn in the tiny zooto commune with with goats and deer
And all kinds of birds: peafowl,a dozen chickens and roosters,barn owls, red-tailed hawks,even two haggard bald eaglesseparately enclosed
Talking with little onesabout raptors and hunting and flightand injury requiring rehabilitationhence the tagsand chain link fences
Several times we saw a wild hawkscoping chipmunkshigh above the hawk cagein a cruel displayof freedom
We walked with toddlerswho were learningabout their space in the worldwhile peacocksstrutted their opulent plumagein confinement
The magicis in the way the sun streamsthrough muslin curtainsand the breezesuggests I get up and find a sweater.
The song is laughter of childrencombined with birdsongas each day grows a little warmer,clouds so highthey suggest soaring,Sunday love-day, let me fly with youand not forget tomorrow, and the next daywhen I’ll jonesfor your sweetness again
Souvenir megaphonetries holleringfrom the belly of a whaleon an Anytown beachIts environs no longerconducive to the cheer squadIts hurrah reducedto a last plastic gaspGo School
It’s the nature of ultimatums.If this, then thator if not this, then another thingdetermined by the issuer,nothing else after.Pondering this, I noticenow there is a crowon the rosebush outside my kitchen windowthat ordinarily hosts a circus of sparrows.The sparrows have been gone all year.I wonderif the crow issued an ultimatum.My way or the highway, stupid sparrows.Maybe I am meant to take this occupationas a sign. The crow prophesizes--this will not end well.
What are you trying to hide?is the million-dollar questionposed by the Dead Sea Salts Guyin the middle-of-the-mall kioskas he has emollient cream to fixevery clumsily concealed shame.He notes my pink-ruddy cheeks,dry patches on my eyelids,dark circles, lines around my eyes,laugh lines, blemishes, crepey skin,everything aging with the promiseof youthful vibrancy and tightnessfollowing 6 to 8 weeks of daily use.He even notes my chewed fingernailsYou must stop biting. As if I didn’tknow. As if over years and with lessjowl elasticity one becomes saggierof mind and social understanding.I can’t help but wonder if Dead SeaSalts Guy would sell more creams withLook at you, absolutely perfect. Gorgeous!
In a perfect world, David Foster Wallace is trending every day.
Reflections on Easter Sunday morning:
(1)The house is full of Easter chocolate, but I earnestly eat Grape Nuts.(2)Wind lifts the scent of backyard hyacinths wafting through muslin curtains.(3)Your hands feel so large on the small of my waist--please lift me to the sky--
Capturedwindow reflectiondoes not include mebut I am herebehind glasssquinting into the sunIt contains street signsbuilding facadessidewalk walkersa grandiose steeplespire poking the cloudsand melistening to snippetsof private conversationsfor later poem-makingI am herenoticing all of younot noticing me
Suckersare born everyday. Hustlers scurry likeroaches at night-time, nurturingtheir marks.
We listenedto Nikki Giovanniread poemsof love and resistanceat Chicago Public libraryOutside queens and dykesdanced in streetsilluminated with rainbowsWe joined and kissedin front of a yelling manwith a signreading God Hates Fags
In memory of my dear friend Tracey, with love.
If youwere set to musicyou’d be the kind of songI never forget,the kind that staysjust under the surfaceready for humming,the song I’m always happy to hear.You are songs of my youthbut not reallybecause you are so very much your own song.You are so new I have no way of imagining.You are the song I turn onthrough tears and laughter both,heartbreaking and pleasing, seeminglysimple but endlessly complex.You are perfection. You are my song.
