things are not what they seem; things are not what can be seen

joy ride,

woven women,

diagonal snow like

tiny meteors,

stone sober,

an aura

laid over like

milk, wearing

makeup into

surgery, drawing

cream from a

tree, yellow jacket

of gravity,

a gold light,

a silver bell,

the magnetic shell

between.

Advertisements

ovoid

the mamas bring the

music and the light,

 

stroking sweet-

ness into being,

 

inoculating against

the self-made man.

 

every where you look

is a circuit board

 

waiting for

lightning.

 

the stars are

still inebriated.

 

i keep my hands

at 10 and 2

 

as i measure

you, ride

 

your war-

torn body

 

past the banyans

into the sunrise.

anansi

i found a spider on the kitchen

floor: hairy and black.

 

i asked it to let me see my father again.

but first i trapped it under some tupperware

 

(a clear container so i could keep an eye out,

watch it climbing the sides, trying to escape).

 

i apologized for detaining it, until a guy could

come by and set the spider free in the yard.

 

yes, i am afraid of the things i love.

yes, i am in love with the things i fear.

 

it is not above me to ask a man for help;

after all, i brought him into this world.

 

i dreamt of my father that night—and every

night thereafter; like before, only happier:

 

he was himself, mostly whole, mostly

glad to be with us again; longing to stay,

 

but always having to leave by the end.

mornings always bring the farewell.

 

i visit death so often it

has become a furry friend.

 

 

 

mother meek

For Erleen. May your beautiful mother-soul rest in peace.


it took you two minutes to read me,
to tell me what i sound, smell, taste like;

it took me two centuries to come out of my cave
and play, a web of shining sound hanging

from shaking teeth. i am slave,
manufacturer, warrior, priest, king: all

embodied, poised to inherit the earth.
but it is the minor keys of the mother

being played out in the background—
ever layering, ever loving—

that will win out in the end;
the weak in reverse,

the binaries of her
music box—slight and

strong—turning, bending in
the wind, building the

tender-fierce frame-
work of the world.

mother-green

20150109_162747

i’m watering my

neighbor’s plants

while she’s away;

 

she has plants of every

variety in every room –

even the bath-room,

 

and it’s like a game of

hide-and-seek

to find them all.

 

interspersed throughout

are a few artificial plants that

look persuasively real,

 

and i find myself

watering these too,

for good measure.

 

it’s a quiet process that takes

time, slowly pouring into each

pot from the crystal pitcher;

 

waiting for the water

to pool at the base,

saying: enough.

 

every plant differs in

size, texture, phase;

it requires paying attention

 

to not over- or under-water.

i don’t know their names,

but it turns out i am able

 

to give them what they need.

it turns out they give back ten-fold.

i move a few that aren’t

 

faring as well closer to the

light: but mostly they

just miss their mother.

 

i look around at all of the trinkets,

treasures, and talismans and think:

this woman has a full life.

 

the apartment is small but filled

to the brim with art, books, music, colors,

photographs, flowers, travels.

 

if i live in a place like this

when i am 70, surrounded

by vast memories, and things

 

that i love, and wistful plants

that miss me when i’m gone,

i will be a happy woman.

20150107_135902-1-2