floating and leaving no trace
You raised your arms
To do what
Slips my mind
But that shirt I like to see you in
Lifted up
A tiny bit
Two inches
Revealed
Just two inches of smooth
White skin
Between the swell of your hip
And your ribs
And a cool gray shadow
Across your belly
winter
the new sheets go on the bed
flannel to keep out the cold
but still you inch toward me for warmth
seek out my feet with your own icy toes
and shiver
against my chest
feel the weight press down
into your back
let it merge with the muscles
until you don’t know if
the strength
comes from your back
or from the weight itself
ashes ashes we all
we all
This is not my song.
Though it is a song I am familiar with,
One that I associate with my dad and his era.
He lived through World War II.
Though,
As I understand it,
He served in the Merchant Marines
And never saw combat.
He didn’t talk about it much.
You Always Hurt the One You Love
Not sure why I thought of this song tonight, or about my dad.
Purple and white
The buds nestle
Among green leaves
Waiting to open
Hey. it’s Friday. Let’s try a haiku.
Every teacher assigns these little jewels to their students because they’re just three lines, right? and you just have to have the right number of syllables. I know after reading them and reading about them that it’s not that simple to distill a single moment into something so compact. But I love haiku.
on this cloudy day
the hens loiter near the coop
while a hawk watches
these grey clouds
and cutting wind
make me think of summer
and hunger for something
hot and thick and heavy
i wish you were bread
and butter so I could soak you
in gravy
one summer
when there was nothing going on
my step-dad
needed help with his business
because things had backed up
he cut lawns
pulled weeds
with a bent back
hands knotted from arthritis
and a wheezing cough that
would kill him
in twenty years
he could hire a day laborer, he said,
(okay, he said Mexican),
but the last guy
had tried to unclog the mower
while the blade spun
and sliced a finger in all that wet
green grass plugging up the chute
don’t do that
he said
just turn the mower off first
so we cut grass
edged lawns
and the sun rose early and hot
and the grass stayed wet and rose high
and i got paid almost nothing
which was fair
These dark pixels
Resemble
Splotches of ink
Themselves poor substitutes for thick, heart-heated blood
These pixels
Dance down the screen
These blackened bits of light
Whisper into your ear
With a hand pressed warm against your shoulder blade
The fingers light upon the rise in your neck
With a tickling breath on your cheek
And a meaning that you can feel
Crawling inside you
Though you can’t make out a single
Word
the wind
tugs
at your hair and
i stop myself from
pushing it back
behind your ears
because that casual touch
my fingertips
brushing against you
is not
enough
