Feedback

a hot winged weekend comes to take me away
and like any sensible person on her front porch,
I sit awhile, nod my head, listen to the word
of the plastic pelicans, pinwheels shimmering
behind them – the finest background dancers.

my brother rests on an elevated plane, and I
dart my head towards the direction you’d like
to take, as if I know where you’re headed, as
if I’ve been there and could tell you how many
threads have contracted their lives to a doormat.

I keep my word, but as for my brother, his
memory is one built on convenience, tufts of
gray cotton bordering his neck like Elizabethan
collars, regal and intimidating like the elders
who scare you from asking necessary questions.

you’ve come to me with questions, and I’ve got
nothing but scarcity on this one plot of land, the
smoothness in froth-less coffee waking us up
as the heat of an unforgiving summer awakens
each wrist to rotate, clockwise and cautious.

the cars line up, the ants line up, and the weeds
grow unevenly, like brittle eyelashes rooted in
place for as long as you’d like to stay, for as long
as you’d like to tell me that nothing is wrong, and
water from floppy hoses tastes like guava nectar.

Cat No. 136 of the 500 Cats Project

Connie Undone is on sale at Amazon. Or, get a signed copy from me directly for $12, plus a handwritten poem on a topic of your choice.

days in a week

pristine immunity
was never a truth,
but there is a point to
the simplest things.

apples, little globes
of water contained
with a charge so subtle
we can barely hear it.

with every itch, every
prick at the folds of
our skin, drying through
another nebulous day.

it’s the shock of it,
cold as swing set steel
that prompts us to sketch
stick figures ever lost.

we wrap ourselves up
and wear bubble wrap
masks, and cut into our
palest, stained jeans.

blue bodies and white
exhalations reveal our
struggle, knowing no one
alleged to cry “wolf.”

we wait, breathing in
the rubber cement, its
pungent, hard denial toying
with life’s unsure lips.