An Uncomplicated Hymn

This morning,
when the sky turned grey
and the rain came,
I ran.
Pearl Harbor leaves scars
and those forced to eat mice
and corn
will not come
if I wash the dead.
My fingers
are an uncomplicated hymn
sung in quarter notes
and triplets.
Did I mention I knew you once?
We were young girls
with dreams
that rose like elevators
to the sky.
I did not know that in the end
I would outgrow my own shoes.

Here

They are all here.
The squirrels and the blue-jays,
the cardinals and the robins.
They are all here,
doing what they do this time of year.
I watch them run from tree to tree
so at peace.
You would have never allowed them
such freedom,
such security.
You kept them on their toes.
Let them know who was boss.
You made the backyard a
kill or be killed adventure
everyday.
Now there is only tranquility.
They are all here,
but you are gone.

Bottom Dwelling Buzzard

I am through with words
and talking and reasoning
and crying.
There is only time for action now.
The scalpel
to the throat.
The quick cut
and release
of metal on skin.
For too long now,
I have sat wringing my hands
while the brute,
the bull,
the bully
came and took what is not hers to take.
How dare she!
My sister,
the ogre,
the bottom dweller,
the scavenger,
the buzzard
circling,
picking the dead to the bone.
She, who has taken and taken,
wants more.
She who has never learned to stand on her own two feet
now kneels over my parents sucking them dry,
Sister?
You are not my sister?
My blood and yours could never be the same.

Black Shadow

It is not any easier now
than it was five months ago.
In fact, it’s harder now.
The permanency of it
is more real.
The forever absence of him.
Walking down my hall.
Sneaking into my bed.
Running after ball and squirrel and car.
His eyes
always so perfectly brown
staring me down
demanding a walk,
demanding a meal,
humping his bed
twice a day.
His face on my sheets
staring up at me
every morning by seven a.m.
insistent that I get up
and feel the sun.
His love of life.
the laughter he brought into mine.
The park
and the trees
and the street where I live
are full of him.
Everywhere I look
he is there
but there is nothing to hold on to.
My sadness deeper now
than ever before.
The loss of him
a black shadow that never leaves my side.

Negative Jeans

Negativity is inherited
like freckles and red hair.
Furrowed brows
and stretch marks,
smiles that never turn up
and the belief that life
is only shadow.
The voices in my head,
the ones that tell me it’s too late,
the ones that keep me
tied down
like the victim of some horrible rape,
where did they come from?
From my mother’s breast milk
or my father’s seman?
Was I destined to inherit their pessimism
like I inherited his wavy hair and her thin legs?
Now I am at the park
trying to listen to the birds and the small river
that runs beside the park benches,
but all I can hear is the fly trapped in my car
buzzing and buzzing.
I can’t get the fucker out,
no matter how hard I try.

World of Weasels

The world is full of weasels.
Weasels that tell you they are going to do something
but never will.
Like Ty,
the tennis guy at the Brentwood Y.
He said he’d post a note for tennis partners
for my dad,
but
then didn’t even write down the phone number I gave him.
I hate guys like that.
Arrogant,
pricks
who think they don’t have to give anything to anyone.
I’d like to take all the weasels and the liars of this world
put them in a giant garbage bag,
and throw them out to sea
for the sharks to eat.
Then,
when someone told you they were going to do something,
you wouldn't have to worry.

The Lions

They are here,
the two of them,
limping along into twilight
like wounded lions,
each one scared
to look the other in the eye
for fear of what they might see.