Wikipedia prompt from club :) How fun

Two days before I turned 17,

May 23, 2016

Steve Johnson Jr ranked 39th in the world, for tennis

While I was having a nice dinner with my parents, maybe

after school

Steve Johnson Jr was probably popping a bottle of champagne

or getting a necessary massage of high monetary value

or just having a nice dinner with his parents

math teacher Michelle and tennis coach Steve Johnson Sr

who would die not even a year later on May 11th

(as it happens, my ex’s birthday)

Steve Johnson retired two years ago

and is only 3 years and 19 days older than my current boyfriend

and two days off from also being a Sagittarius

What I mean to say

if anything at all

is that life is happening literally all the time

and in every way

to everyone all at once

and I’d never know about Steve Johnson if it weren’t for this prompt

and now I’m thinking of him

kneeling down, sweat behind his knees, tying up his sneakers

and winning big, and wiping his brow, and missing his dad

the ball soars back over the net

and bounces off the taut clear strings of the racket

which I’ve seen must sometimes be cut

and I believe, if cut recklessly

will be ruined, or even burst

Silly silly silly

Suddenly by a creek in Virginia

I feel like a silly girl

writing a poem

but the air was so sweet four states down

and the leaves were shaking

high and silver green

dropping spots of white on the

wet dark stones

scooping grit from

the cool shallow water

we watched the bugs

drift like pollen or

snap their metallic wings

sometimes there was

something that had gone unnoticed

before

scaly tudor bark of the tree

arching its back

the limp bodies of tulip poplars

washed up like birds on the rocks

painted orange cream

in every shape and sensation

suddenly far from where I expected to be

there was the suggestion

of something more

we tried to glimpse what the other had seen

skimming fingertips on the liquid surface

I searched the skin of the creek

dimpled with blue pockets of light

to where you pointed

there, little brown fish!

dancing in this one clear cove of water

cast floating shadows on the algae

I don’t think it mattered,

to any of us there

the minnows, your gray dog,

the rocks, the trees

what that creek was called

or where it leads

Bobby, Hachiko

I love you,

dog sitting on the grave

I love you,

dog waiting by the train

he will not come back

the one you wait for

he will not touch your head

or feed you from his palm

or walk with you

or call you good

but he did once

he did many times

and what was given formed a tether

his smell, his hand, the sound of his walk

not gone but delayed

and impossible to find

beneath the loose and fragrant dirt

across the metal tracks

he will not come back

but others will

and time will pass

it is easy to call this love

or grief

though you would not call it anything

your wet nose shines in the moving air

and the sun moves across the ground, your paws

your lightened fur

You come, when at last he calls

and the tether is so strong, the smell of him so near

that you never lose your way,

and never once fear

Big Blue Band-Aid

Another band-aid poem it seems- first attempt at water poem

bent double and wretched

drunk in Liz’s shower

water from the fridge cold britta

my pale feet swish

in the chilly green creek

where serious men catch trembling fish

and trod in their big galoshes

I trip and fall

on my way to the river

catch myself with my hands

deny the help of passerby and hobble

to the rail for a glimpse of the Schuylkill

how it wobbles mauve and honey-

blue, big wet eyes

blinking slow

my palm bleeds

I cry on the street

I piss in the ocean

and bob on my back

pour crisp pacifico on my fresh skinned knee

Sea Bird Limerence

Sometimes the thing with feathers

lands too heavy on your naked arm

and then it takes off

and your arm is bleeding

bite down, like a talon in the mud

on your fat fleshy lip

sentiments stick

wet dough between your fingers

keep working it,

sharpen your intention

just rend into the stomach and get it over with

dig sustenance out of your own breast

if you have to

the stranger's black and mild

smoke sneaks into your chest and

steals home in your brush torn hair

if only you had been a fucking eagle

bullet tight body freewheeling over the canyon

if only you had been the wheat

under the crushing wheel

then maybe something would come of this

watching fingertips twitch pale

again

catching eyes like far off minnow flash

under the brackish mirror there might have been

a hundred- but you'd still go hungry

you stupid blushing bird

looking away right when the silver hits the sun

from 3/3 writing club

prompt #1 bless, passive, patient

the flame is still

and then it sputters

it is sometimes still

and sometimes growing

large and wild with dark smoke

it eats the air and the wax

and I do not notice

the consumption of air

but I do watch the wax as it changes

is eaten

is passively made molten

melts and drips and then, again

hardens

it is hard for me to decide

if the flame facilitated by the candle

is a part of the candle, a victory of the candle

or a force against

it's a blessing though

isn't it?

wax collected and shaped to house a flame

changed as intended

through heat and air

to a thing that lives, if only once

sputtering, growing wild

eating itself

or its source

the same scaled back and stomach

the scorpion riding the strong wet back

"it's in my nature"

Isn't it? For everyone?

drink wine, stay out late, eat

voracious

try hard, get better

burn, melt, change shape,

light up

...............................................................

Prompt #2 Love/Place

Mark rings the bell

and it lopes down the grassy hill

past the swinging wooden bench

over the pale mist of the pond

a boat sends whisper ripples

early riser with the fishes

I wake up groggy in the attic room

big leggy bug batting at the window

pine standing still and patient

oozing amber sap

It always looks the same to me

the sensations come back

after a year

my pale shoe-soft feet remember

the rocky drive even before

I perform the wincing walk past

the cars to the concrete carpeted

screened-in porch

Mark's shirt is faded "Life is Good" cotton

his bald head shines and

he smiles at me through his scruff as I shuffle past

into the warm coffee dining room

always, for everyone,

like there was a joke on the line

the big brass bell sits quiet on the step

as breakfast begins

Mark made special separate pancakes just for me

and I'm sorry I couldn't finish them all

Mark died this year

but I only knew him one week each summer

when he rang the bell to wake us

and hugged us and made

extra soup and special pancakes for me

so I can't help but feel he's still there

some week in early July

waiting on the sun warm concrete steps

by the picnic table with a striped apron on

or at the bottom of that dark hill

unseeable in the bowl of stars

sitting on a wobbly wooden bench by the fire

one big fish jumping in the quiet black water

........................................................

love poem warning

not sure about reading this one out loud lol, I'm not sure if it's working that well as a poem, more like a record for me

444

You told me you’d forgotten and

I reminded you

You told me you never knew and

I taught you

We walked your delicate old chihuahua

down the carpeted stairs

and she shook in the cold, rattling against a dry leaf

You could hold her with one hand

I hadn’t known I could love like that

We made pasta at my parents house

and you reached past my chest to

swirl water around the empty tomato can

We didn’t kiss until I asked you if we could–

standing up on the stone patio in the dark

Reeling and heady, I held your suede jacket to my face when you left

I almost cried when I saw you in the shower the first time

your long wet hair and eyelashes

your knees on the yellow tile

We walked down to the creek with our arms

around each others waists and when I had a cold

you kissed me and told me you wouldn’t get sick

and it worked

You told me you wanted to give me everything

I didn’t know people talked like that

but I believed you

You made me coffee and rye toast with butter

and helped me move my mattress up two flights of stairs

Sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it was wrong

Even so

I’m sure I could see your soul

Even now

I feel it

Every once in a while I think about your dogs

or what new movies you’d like

I’m so glad that instead of becoming a landlord

or a cop you decided to comfort the wounded

and restart hearts, it suits you

You tracked Eugene down

to give him weed and a pizza

when you didn’t have cash on hand

You treated me like an important person

Maybe there is a world where I was ready

and you were less afraid of what I thought

I never met your parents or your siblings

We never went to the shore

I don’t even know how you dance

But I think you’d be proud of what I’m doing now

and that still makes me feel good

Sometimes I look you up on facebook or try to

map out your tattoos

I look for you in every ambulance

Maybe there is a world where we learned

the things we needed to and made it work

Where we got a house and took in strays

and made big pots of food

for the whole neighborhood

February Hunting Party

I practice figuring out

What it is I want

I sit at the dining table

In the only seat

touched by a tender slant

of winter light

I have to sit very still

For my wants to emerge

Like white hares out of

Their burrows

Trace the pale blue shadows

Discern prints left by other animal bodies

Eventually I brew

some coffee

Outside the window the top layer of snow is scattered by wind

Off the top of the brick wall it

Showers down gossamer beading

Each feather point somehow catches

Its own blinding light

the coffee is hot

and earthy rich on my tongue

Divine Assistance or Circumstance

I watch a video of a frog trying to eat a worm

round lunge forward

misses the plump pink worm everytime

Sometimes even when you do what you're meant to do,

the perfect thing

it isn't easy

I laugh at the frog slapping back on its haunches

wormless, blank-eyed, blinking

Sometimes you are wet and hunting in the jungle

hidden so good by the fat green leaves

quick-tongued, deadly

only to be gobbled up by some great orange beak

Sometimes you are insouciant in a tupperware container

A giant hand reaches down

puts the food in front of you

and waits for you to eat

Princess Band-Aid

Humble yourself

you are no winter martyr

you are a lucky daughter

treat your mind the way a parent treats a wound

the child cannot see

it will hurt more if they look at the blood,

if they think it should

the wound will be cleaned and cared for, anyway

make it silly

choose a princess band-aid

change the subject

do not tell yourself where there should be pain

get dressed

make soup

go out

get the work done

do not mistake pain for virtue

there is healing that happens naturally after a body's been

looked after

Here's what I read at Abyssinia:

From the Zine...

Perennial Bulbs

the wet leaf shines

blood red

limp and stuck

to the side of my shoe

like an appliqué of a wound

I think how every finger prick conjures

the round vital mystery of my body

how I’ll carry this bite

tucked in the tissue of my finger

though the cat who drew blood is gone

tree rings have

these same aberrations, like the dense little knots in felted wool

overgrown pocket knife declarations

or the sooty sear of lightning strikes

even now there’s a mark

for the hole I dig out of

my cheek every time I feel nineteen

injury becomes a method for

memory or

wanting something the way I used to

every scraped knee stings

like it did on the blue couch in the old office

in the long driveway of the big white house

where the spring crocuses came up

and were mowed down

the gooey sap of healing

is recognizable

I try, now, not to scrape it off

the gales of old that howl in stone walls

are proof of strength and care

of craftsmanship

I bleed from the reopened hole in my cheek

and hold the familiar ache

like a precious heirloom

a fallen leaf

a trowel of mortar

......................................................

About the ridiculousness of a crush...

If only it broke the skin

it would make more sense

but there is only the blood in my face

hot in my cheeks and forehead

my lips chapped and glossed

sweat wetting the hard crease of denim behind my knees

If only you’d summon me

with your ancient vampire powers

I’d be helpless for only that reason

I’d tip my head back and wait for your breath

sharp whisper on the tight skin of my straining neck

You’d be happy with me and satisfied

I’d fall to the floor no longer blushing

if only it drained me bodily

if only you needed it

if only it killed me

.................................................

Going to Blair Mill in the Snow with my Mom....

A flock of geese honks in the snow

on the other side of the icy bridge

near the base of the sledding hill

where kids padded with downy snowsuits

nearly slip into the frosted creek

catching themselves on each other

or in a thicket of bending branches

on the bank

the geese surround

a small house next to an invisible

baseball field

dark as velvet, they bob their necks, shift

their plump bodies

settle and slide on the

tilted lawn

I wonder if they’re cold

black webbed feet

press to the crust of snow

half a second before sinking in

they probably are, my mom says,

but maybe they don’t judge it

I imagine not judging it, which I guess is

the same as not wanting it to be different

not imagining how it could be

different

the woman who lives in the house takes plastic bags

of groceries from the car

she pushes past the familiar geese and throws

them apples that land

solid and red in the snow

the geese honk and bicker over the apples

but have about as much luck

eating them as you’d expect

what’s the use of fighting for something too hard to eat?

instinct or experience tells the geese that

what the woman throws

what is given to them

is beneficial,

worth fighting for

my mom and I pick our way through

twigs and clinging dead vines

down to the creek

for ice breaking big rocks

to throw from the bridge

when we clamber out, my mittens are wet

the rocks press muddy to my blood red scarf

and my mom notices that the geese have gone still

through the clear cold air, we hear the kids

yelp as they fly down hill, past the jump

into the protective shins of their parents

the geese are sitting in the light, watching the sun

that is moving now like a yolk through frosted tree limbs

the geese face the warmth

which arrives like a woman with full arms

they move towards comfort

which is maybe not the same as wanting it

and do not bicker

because there is enough light to touch them all

the geese relax their long dark necks

and quiet, in the current of

cream yellow warmth

like pebbles in a stream

without having wanted, without imagining how it could be different

is this

I wonder

the same thing as loving it

my mom and I walk the short way back

past the tipped over snowmen

to our house on the hill

for me, of course, it is