In the course of waiting
Seconds don’t click by,
They drag.
One small movement
Oozing after another.
When anticipating the arrival of
Family, grandchildren
On a cold winter’s day
Before Christmas
Try to think about anything else
Good luck with that.
Hurry, but safely
Happy birthday, Mom. We’re still here, living our lives as best we can. Hoping you’d be proud.
We’re still here, missing you. Remembering the Christmases you made special. The way you always overstressed just so everything would be perfect. And it seemed to somehow work.
And we’re still here, still wishing you were, too. No matter how many years you’ve been gone it still feels like yesterday. Like you might walk in the house any minute wearing that mile-wide smile of yours.
Like you might dance to whatever song came on the radio, not caring how goofy you looked. And we’re still here. Wishing you were, too.
A healthy pour
Red, a Merlot,
Full-bodied.
I knew the first taste
Before lifting the glass
To waiting lips,
And then
One awkward,
Thoughtless move
Sent the crystal
Lurching,
Slow-motion, yet
Too fast for old
Fingers to find
Purchase,
And wine went
EVERYWHERE:
The floor
Countertop
Inside cupboards
And drawers.
All over my khakis,
The ones with elastic
At the ankles
Harem girl style,
My favorites.
And saddest of all?
There was no wine
Left in the
Bottle.
I slipped inside the cool, dark house
Slipped out of my dress and into
The shower where I slipped
On a bar of soap and sat
For many minutes as
The tears slipped
Down my
Cheeks.
Guns killed nineteen children
And the incumbent governor
Barely blinked
Aside from thoughts and prayers
Nothing’s been done since ten souls
Perished in Buffalo where
An 18-year-old went gunning for
Black people with hate in his heart
The devil danced
In Orlando and Sandy Hook,
Las Vegas and Charleston,
Columbine and Paducah,
Without blinking
Different faces
Different names
But the devil doesn’t care
And the gun cult extends a hand
For yet another dance.
A dream:
I stood in a field
Surrounded by children.
One asked,
Will you mentor me?
I hemmed and hawed
Scratched my head,
Then, yes.
But know I don’t take this lightly.
We drove to a school
Children in plaid skirts and narrow ties
Crowded near.
This is my mentor,
The child said.
She took my hand and we walked
Through archways,
Across sports fields.
We sat at narrow desks.
I thought to ask her name.
Didn’t you know already?
It’s your name, too.
A cat wound our way
Demanded a petting.
The girl smiled.
I’ve named her after us.
That first touch, first kiss
First I love you
Still exist
Somewhere in the archives
Of my soul.
And surely that was magic
Just as the weight of a
Newborn baby in my arms
Is magic.
And sometimes I think
To myself, nobody else,
But you, I suppose
That it’d be a real shame
If all my magic has played out,
Gone to someone younger;
Someone who won’t realize what was afoot
Until wrinkles line their face and
Maybe then it’s too late.
But I tell myself, and you,
That is, those of you who understand,
Our days of magic are now
In the sunsets and warm embraces
Of a gentle love with whom
We’ve grown old.
Have you seen, though, the video of the Ukrainian woman?
The one who confronts a Russian solder?
She tells him to put flower seeds,
Sunflower seeds, to be specific,
In his pockets so when he dies
On Ukrainian soil
Some good will be left
Behind. And,
So his comrades will know
Where he fell.
Peace, people. Please.
James Taylor knew, didn’t he, the pain of
Thinking he’d have one more chance
To hold a hand
To say the words and hear theirs in return
To savor their embrace
Only to be denied these comforts
Forever.
Oh, I always thought that I’d see them
One more time again.
You always think you have another day,
Another moment to say I love you,
To hold the hand that
Needs holding,
To sing one
Last song.
But really, all you have is now.
And just like that, now
Has also slipped
away.
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 