floating and leaving no trace
It is the first weekend of fall and it is still a stifling 90+ degrees during the day, and the nights feel like bath in hot soup. Still. It’s Friday, and so, without further delay, the haiku.
—–
mantis waiting there
your hands folded in prayer
–for food, mate or both?
across the street in the dark
on a well lit playing field
behind chain link
a child no older than three
chases a fluorescent yellow
soccer ball
his dad
i won’t call him father
chases close behind
herding him toward the net
where his mom
waits
wide open for him
to score a goal
he explodes in giggles
and collapses on the ball
that is half as big as he is
and i am so glad
that they are there
in the magnolia bloom
bigger than my hand
too much of a sweet scent
three bees gather pollen
crawling over the petals
and each other
we sleep and move
with open eyes
gliding through dark mists
guided by echoes
who speaks? whose voice?
is it our own or another?
we meander through
halls of mirrors
and fail to see
reflections we cast
our own shadows leaping
and trying to escape
trapped in panes of glass
and two dimensions
receding
and always on the surface
dizzy from a year
in the new house
or maybe it’s
the fumes from cleaning
the stove
you see the things
that have been fixed
but zero in
on the things yet to do
still boxes
in my office
and the yard
is a mess
not dead
but struggling
outside
the finches celebrate
by eating the nyjer seed
out of the swaying feeders
and shitting in the grass
with the lights off
during the video
in world history
he leans forward enough
to put his hands on
her neck
her shoulders
her sweater is heavy
cable-knit and rough
under his moving fingers
the narrator talks and talks
about the barter system
and the beginnings of
banking
she moves her hair
and leans back
and he can touch
the skin of her neck
while he kneads her
flesh
his legs are just long enough
so that his knees press
against her
through open frame of her chair
his pants legs pressing
against the heavy skirt
that all the girls seem to wear
but it doesn’t matter
by the time the narrator has
started to talk about minted
currency his hands and her shoulders
are the same hot temperature
and when the lights come on
he slides his legs back
and she turns and whispers “thank you”
and he says “you’re welcome”
but really he’s saying “thank you” too
and they never speak of it
and it never happens again
i feel like dancing
like flailing my arms
and shaking my hips
bending my knees
and spinning
and jumping
and doing the splits
casting meaningful glances
or just glances that mean
i’m dancing
but
i don’t want to scare
the children
or the old people
or pull anything
or take someone’s eye out
and i hate the sinking feeling
of not being able to dance
of not knowing how to dance
when my feet want to move
Friday Haiku, in honor of summer winding down
—
the summer sky blue
wind waving dappled green leaves
and my pounding heart
strike with the hammer
the blunt edge flattening
the steel still hot
still molten
but cooling by the second
only the falling strike
of the hammer
can temper the metal
forcing atoms to align
preparing the steel
to hold an edge
men in labs
can create blades
with ceramics
no thicker than a hair
but their sweat
never mixes in with the steel
is never drunk up by the thirsty metal
and their muscles will not strain
their veins never bulge
with the falling of the hammer
if there were a kiss
that you could kiss
and never stop
lips pressing against
one another
melting into one another
merging
there would be no need to breathe
becoming each other’s breath
your skin would become feathers
and locked together
you would soar
Words and Feathers 