A few poems…
Reassurance
1—
My cat startles & I tell her nothing
bad is happening, but
we both know that’s a lie
on a large enough scale.
She hears the neighbors’ doors
slam, the child in the ceiling crying
like an injured mouse. She knows footfalls
on the landing lead to the wretched
doorbell. Uninvited guests
lead to us coaxing her to accept
strangers in her home. She knows
the rush of sirens down Oak or shouts
from the narrow park must mean something
in the same way we all know
that one thing always leads
to another
She turns a pale eye towards me as if to say
just because it’s not happening to me
doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
2—
As we wade into the cold mountain
lake, my sister promises me
nothing’s going to touch your feet—maybe
some grass or a fish, but I’ve never seen anything bad
here. She shifts the baby to her other hip & walks
deeper. Her husband rows away from the widening rings
of sunscreen filming the top of the swampy water, oil slick
of caution. I know she loves me.
Later, I scramble onto the inflatable raft & hold
the baby & my breath. My sister stays rooted in the water
picking the leeches from between my toes: doesn’t glance
down at her own feet—not even once.
Her husband saw the signposts on the shore & told
no one. He thought they didn’t apply anymore:
he’s never noticed anything in the waters.
3—
My boss sends a message before an important meeting
to ask if I can still lead in light of the news. I reassure him
yes, I’m in California—I’m not affected for now.
In the crowded room,
the men make small talk,
but have nothing to say.
Persephone waits for her husband
The furniture is breathing again,
polished with sin and longing. My skin
sighs—hungry for your hands—blossoms
with brimstone & hellebore. I pluck
endless petals, whispering:
he loves me, he loves me, he loves
me… The blooms don't dare say else.
When you collapse into my flower
bed, your body flickers—flint
& electricity—heart shuddering
between my parted lips. You thistle
against my soft belly, growing harder.
A tumult of vines and viscera breathing
death and life into each other: graveyards
become gardens, adorned
with brambles & bones. Deflowered
headstones crumble with cries,
coins fall from the eyes of so many sleepless
dead as you bury me in your unfathomable wealth.
Tangled in sleep, you tiptoe
through my dreams. I wind
tendrils of ivy around you—
grasp at your trespassing ankles.
These seasons are seconds:
you're gone again. The hallways feel
hollow without you and the terror of your
dog. All the flowers in my house die
for want of you—I gather them
in my arms, murmuring secrets
in their wilting petals, composing
bouquets of rotting love notes.
I send garlands across the ghost
river, arriving at your feet, weeping
to be kept in your world.
The stories have it wrong: you never forced
me to stay. I collected your jeweled seeds
on my tongue. Showed you my devotion
before I swallowed you, smiling.
My lover wears a mask to kiss me
When she comes home—
staring through walls, dropping
her gloves and white coat—
she sheds selkie scrubs into a pile on the floor.
Douses them in alcohol:
lights a candle to any god who ever existed—
What if they listen this time?
Is this flesh enough now?
Runs hot tears and soap over all her skin
with cracked hands, digs in her nails,
until she’s scrubbed newborn
pink and screaming
at this unfathomable world.
I wrap her in a blanket,
pet her curls;
she kisses my thigh through her mask.
Underneath the silence,
her breath carries the world
outside. I hold mine a little longer—
make space for her solemn vespers—
hope help arrives soon.
The Poeming Pigeon—From Pandemic to Protest
Photo credit: Kayleigh Shawn McCollum
Ash, discomfort, & regret
I love listening to you read. Your tongue
carefully picking around words—
a heron—legs & beak & sheen of swamps.
I want to kiss your lips—taste the strange
botanic crush—garden trimmings,
long established ivy ripped up by the roots
plaster dangling from its tendrils.
Architecture crumbling with the weight
of accumulated responsibilities.
I know you'll taste of ash,
discomfort & regret,
the faint metallic clang of history repeating itself—
church bells pealing backwards in the night—
an Unsettling din.
Atlanta Review—Fall 2021
Photo credit: Kayleigh Shawn McCollum