Category: Poetry

Change, Determination, Poetry

Every Glove

smirkpretty

Diana with Dog

Each time I think I’ve made contact
sleep ducks away. I stumble
back to night,
dazed. Bedstand, light
Rise Up Singing, 1992 edition
my name a blue wave
from an eager hand
across an arena packed
with years. The water
stained pages crack open
to Men, a section all its own:
He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother
and Hard Lovin’ Loser
and the one I tucked against me as His
pocketful of mumbles
such are promises. I sing
as I would for my restless son, sway
like the heavy bag
matching its pace, this rhythm I know
by heart. When I left
my home and my family
I was no more than a boy, now
I lay wide the unwrapped
knuckle, throat
bare as palms
I swing
to meet the solid
object I thought
on loan from some
other, and fall
through to a core
so supple and familiar
it is certainly my own and
it will certainly
burst. Momentum
splits a seam, tears
off the skin,
and as with all things
through
is the only way
out. Where I land, stars
spill across sky
in this clearing
stands a boxer and a fighter
by her trade
and she carries the reminders
of every glove that laid her down
or cut her til she cries out
all the anger and the shame
I am leaving I am leaving
and the fighter
rises
up
here, singing
her own name
 

Learning, Poetry

Preparing for Bed

smirkpretty

FERGUSON February Snow Compton Downs _1

This is the prying open
This is the aeration
Who said sleep would be painless?
Down here something like earthworms
turn open
settled places
that would
given the choice
compress
to stone.

The merciless law
of this dark place
withholds that choice.
The next seeds
will have their chance
after all.
The soil beneath will churn
like water
like everything else
up there.

But this is winter, you say.
Hibernation? Rest time?
You have been awake
in your dreams
so you know
better. The turning goes on
and on. The surface arcs
in spectral color,
splits along seams
invisible in the dazzle
of daylight.
Detail falls away.
The blind, blunt nose of the soul
comes drilling through
to open a story
in the dense fabric, to force
breath between threads
and tease loose
what holds you
to you.

 
—
Image Credit: Andrew Ferguson, “February Snow, Compton Downs from the Ridgeway,” Woodcut.

Parenting, Poetry

Tin Man

smirkpretty

Chain and door lock

He is a knot
lashed to a lock
hasp snapped tight
as lips.
Planting himself at the edge of the room
he holds fast to the border
between thrust and withdrawal, steel bars clamped
across his chest.
Silence thuds out from the footing
where he has sunk
his fury
and pulses
through the planks of the floor.

It is impossible to know what someone else feels.
I know exactly what he feels.
The vise grip jaw is mine
writ small. The iced chassis, his
unfortunate inheritance.
I approach with a voice of WD40, the thin straw
laying a bead across the distance between us.
It takes its time leaching in along the thread
of his coil, feeling for tumblers
and any hint of give. I fold my arms
like the mouth of a spaniel
around him and trust in the unctuous
persistence of my proximity
until his grip slips loose
enough to push free.
 

Poetry, Things I Can

93. Things I Can Draw on Here: The Hidden Exposure

smirkpretty
Life is a Dance in the Rain III (Adrian Borda)
Life is a Dance in the Rain III (Adrian Borda)

He stands peering through glasses backwards
into a recitation of facts we lack the questions
to question, a row of chairs, linoleum
squares, a windowless room and young
scholars slumped in the corridor. I watch
a groundhog settle on his shoulder.
It watches the waters
rise around us, ankle then hip then neck
then gills as pressure threatens
to squeeze us into the jelly
that already comprises
him, oozes from the threads
of the screws in his spectacles
first then from the brass button
at his navel. Imperfect seals
it turns out.  Continue reading “93. Things I Can Draw on Here: The Hidden Exposure” →

Change, Poetry, Relationships, Things I Can

86. Things I Can Clear: The Haze

smirkpretty

Recovery taught mindset before mindfulness
was a word. For today, the glass
is the eye. For today, shrug
and surrender. The shoulder
gives way and even grief
recedes. See now
where three cranes have paused
in this brown place we forgot
to consecrate, each half
gripping its parcel
of terrain, half clutching
the sky. We are all falling
even when pinned
in place
(especially then)
and always,
the option
of flight.

 

Change, Poetry, Relationships, Things I Can

85. Things I Can Hold: The Promise

smirkpretty

Honeysuckle Tag

Months after the last blossom
wilts and lets go, a tendril
of scent unfurls
among the parched weeds
and knotted shrubs edging
the broken road.
Only at night the perfume steals
out to stretch its cramped
wings and lean
into the hum
of cricket’s legs
and streetlamps. It will be gone
by sunrise, tucked
under winter straw
that falls in summer, swathing
thirst and throb in a jacket
of silence.