another message
without
a subject line
a flat assumption
that you are
owed my time
and a reminder
what’s mine is yours
but mine ain’t mine.
no matter
what i’ve said
or redefined
about changing our
relationship
for the thousandth time
you hear
your own voice only
saying ‘like this, is just fine.’
time
happy for what’s new here
the hand rail’s loose but it’s never made my grip slip and the window lets in light and i can read despite that small chip. there’s a next door nosey neighbour who always gets under my skin- so a fresh year, what’s the big deal, i don’t really get it. and what feels new right now is that this is how it’s always been. thinking that tomorrow, with a year change might bring me to a new scene. but if i’m being very honest i gotta choose a life that likely won’t choose me. and on top of that the wind pushes on my weak side no matter how i lean. so hoping to be saved by someone else likely won’t change me. and what feels new right now is that this is how it’s always been. with lots of hopeful small talk about people needing big change. but skipping steps in the process makes for bigger falls in a losing game. what i’ve learned is that this thinking always leads me back to someone else’s shame. walking talking with myself on this same path not knowing who to blame. and what feels new right now is that this is how it’s always been. looking backwards while running forwards makes my ghosts grin. so planning without acting is a loop that i can’t get in. and complaining that things are shit when it’s all my pile gives me no exception. it means that if i am working on it, i’m winning even though i may be suffering. and what feels new right now is that this is how it’s always been.
street
We never check the weather. A sudden shower, though inexplicable, was just one of many wonders- like finding a dollar bill. Or hearing a payphone ring. No matter the morning chatter about rain coats and umbrellas, dark clouds and thunderheads are moot. If anything, adult fascinations are prompts to get our asses outside faster. And even while sunny moments shift to syrupy downpours, we understand it all follows into more tomorrows. The terra firma pheromones, now loosened and unmoored, summon notes of sunscreen and popsicles and pool chlorine; a brief reminder that an unending summer can still be interrupted. Rising from a million trillion joyous bloom’s and puddling up at curbsides, in riverbeds and fields wild with eye height grasses, the message telling kids to keep splashing up and down driveways stained with late summer sunsets and street chalk is clear. And while adults roll up windows and shelter, we gallop through yards and dart between cars. Fences are tightropes. Trees, trapezes. Dinner warnings; heralds for one more round! The protest always begins at dusk. No one wears a watch. The neighbourhood does it for us. I count down, as the sun slips and simmers into Lake Ontario, One 100, two 100, three 100, four 100, five 100. Ready or not, here I come! Then bounce into the street from the green box, a homemade homebase, halo’d in street lamp glow just enough for safety; shadow wrapped enough to allow a quick slip into the darkness. Any minute the front stoop phone chain will start. Mike lives the farthest, his dad’s vocal power is unmatched. His bass line fills 4 square blocks easily. It's frightening when he uses it inside the house. Lisa’s mom will just stand on the porch staring out into the night. She won't turn on the exterior, the mosquitoes are bad at dusk. Lisa catches hell every time, for each bite her mom suffers. Someone in Tony’s house semaphore flickers from the kitchen. Whatever the code, he runs home mid sentence just in time for all of the house lights to go off. My mom informs the neighbourhood, Chris!! Time to come in for a bath! I drag my ass. I wander down the block. Just far enough to say I didn’t hear you. Just far enough to get a believably desperate running start back up the driveway. Just far enough to still show I care. Just far enough to test if they are there. Just far enough to remind myself that we will not give up summer freedom without a fight.
progeny
the interviewer reads a quote to the poet. the poet asks, -its stunning. who wrote that? the interview chuckles and says -you did. they are your words. the poet, surprised, says, -did i? when? the interviewer tells them the publication date. the poet nods, -well that is a long time ago then. the interviewer follows up, -how do you not remember those words? your words. the poet, smiling, -i assure you, they were never my words. the interviewer wonders, -but you wrote them? the poet, -i found them. at the tip of my pen. we had one page of time together, then parted ways. the interviewer stumbles, -what does that mean? the poet, -when i found them they refused to be seen. they were proud, raw, feral. they bit back and tried to claw their way off the page. the interviewer, wryly, -sounds like you tried to tame them. the poet clarifies, -no. fed them, yes. sheltered, likely. protected and made them safer, definitely. the interviewer, vexed, -and now? the poet, -well we had agreed to never meet again. so i am not sure what happens next. ~for Mary Oliver
the impossibility of quiet
It has a texture, a dust
residue.
Like a reminder after the too loud moment
or like the space between the fall and the tears.
It has a gravity,
like the falling feeling as air escapes the room
or an ombré filled space where you once were.
It is volume,
like the empty cup you keep overfilling with chatter
and the sound as another command hits the floor.
It is fear,
like the moment after the bump in the night
or listening to you lightly breathing, but actually checking proof of life.
It is familiar,
like watching a thing long enough to behold it
or like our hands falling into a folded resting form.
It is the thing you crave, then a thing you fear.
It elevates will.
It antagonizes while you await results.
It takes a beat before expecting to be noticed.
It is the moment just before acceptance.
It is the disturbed air warning as the subway shoots past.
It is indecision between two emotions, fear and excitement, because they both feel the same in my body.
And sometimes, sometimes, it is the sleepy gaze from my cat atop the couch.
about time
A mistake
brought me to the grocery store
at dawn's break.
Newsreels, infection rates,
ICU lineups and long waits
meant that online purchases ain't efficient anymore.
Delays were imminent.
But I hadn't noticed any of it.
My virtual cart could be picked up a week from now,
but we were out of milk somehow.
So that guy seems real upset pacing up and down
the sidewalk, shaking his head, making me anxious-
posing in front of the exit, waving his arms like hailing a cab,
and spitting mad.
Barking to no one and everyone in line,
his muttering distractions made eyes look to mine.
The guy steps in close- litigates and reiterates-
'guess 8
o'clock doesn't mean what it used to be.'
My watch showed 8:03.
And i could see
inside the store, employees stacked, cleaned, and chopped.
While outside, a small clutch of early risers wonders about when they can shop.
8:05, the door opens.
A teenage gatekeeper struggles to smile and says 'cmon in'.
As the line files through,
some offer clever counsel at the indifferent interloper who
listens patiently to
the grumbles of 'next time' and 'my time' and 'wasted time'.
Those chronic rhymes
are a clear sign
that time
really is not what it should be.
But the thing about time
is that you have to stall on a fine line
and that essence
to feel any ownership of the current tense,
means noticing that as the staff member scrolls backwards, i stroll forward fast
into my present and by then i am already in her past.
words keep wolves at bay 