She used her mother’s vanishing cream,
because other kids said she was queer.
Eternity slipped like silk from a dream
never belonging to any class team.
Trying to make life disappear
she used her mother’s vanishing cream.
The principal called her make-up extreme.
Said she’s young to appear so “austere.”
Eternity slipped like silk from a dream
and cried when she wanted to scream.
The day her best friend forever steered clear
she used her mother’s vanishing cream.
Invisibility is a swift flowing stream
but it fails to eradicate fear.
Eternity slipped like silk from a dream.
Her future inspired a letting go scheme.
Pills popped to stop one more year.
She used her mother’s vanishing cream
Eternity slipped like silk from a dream.
30 April 2010
29 April 2010
and suddenly snow!
It’s April,
and snow
is screaming sideways
through the sky.
White mounds on
spring leaves
until branches
bend and break,
blocking byways,
crashing into cars.
Major sections of
highway close,
causing newcomers to
reconsider their
recent migration
to Montana.
and snow
is screaming sideways
through the sky.
White mounds on
spring leaves
until branches
bend and break,
blocking byways,
crashing into cars.
Major sections of
highway close,
causing newcomers to
reconsider their
recent migration
to Montana.
26 April 2010
Slumber Party Conjuring
Black candles
float flames
flickering soft on
feminine faces.
A concentrated circle
calls on the spirit of Salome’
seductress of serpentine dance.
The candles whoosh out and
relight while the
girls’ fists slam a rhythm
on the table.
Chanting five times in
rising crescendo
the girls appeal:
Dancing like no other here,
show yourself, in form appear.
Winds swirl from the
walls inward.
Fanned flames
float smoke veils
that undulate
and glow.
Beneath shining eyes,
the girls point their palms
up and together.
Shuffling them before their lips,
they utter
. . . Salome’ . . . Salome’ . . . Salome’ . . .
Monday at school, secreted whispers
between slumber party sisters speak of
Salome’ swirling sass into the dance of seven veils.
float flames
flickering soft on
feminine faces.
A concentrated circle
calls on the spirit of Salome’
seductress of serpentine dance.
The candles whoosh out and
relight while the
girls’ fists slam a rhythm
on the table.
Chanting five times in
rising crescendo
the girls appeal:
Dancing like no other here,
show yourself, in form appear.
Winds swirl from the
walls inward.
Fanned flames
float smoke veils
that undulate
and glow.
Beneath shining eyes,
the girls point their palms
up and together.
Shuffling them before their lips,
they utter
. . . Salome’ . . . Salome’ . . . Salome’ . . .
Monday at school, secreted whispers
between slumber party sisters speak of
Salome’ swirling sass into the dance of seven veils.
25 April 2010
Heaven is Here
Suffering soul knows
his way to the
kingdom of heaven
lies fuel his fear-
hatreds emerge.
Guitars stir startling
juxtapositions
of suicide bombers and
salvation, with a
haunting ballad
that hums—
and then the band
pumps up the rock in
this Kingdom of Heaven.
Fearless and beautiful,
Etheridge evokes a
God who lives in me
and loves in you and
lives in you and
loves in me.
Heaven is here.
Heaven is here.
24 April 2010
Annapurna Circuit 1987
Pilgrims journey for days to reach Muktinath
they come from India, they come from Tibet,
they mingle with trekkers traveling through.
Muktinath captures trekkers the day they
cross Thorung La Pass on the Annapurna Circuit
of the Himalayan mountains of Nepal. Thorung La
hovers at 17, 769 feet above sea level.
A fountain near the temple of Vishnu
greets us at Muktinath. Water springs
from the ground and is channeled up
through the mouths of stone cow heads
in a line five feet off the ground
on three rock walls. Setting my pack near
a wall, I follow a Hindu pilgrim.
We outstretch our right hands to catch water, and
palm it over our heads. From cow to cow,
I emulate her. She sways my way to say
“Sacred blessing,” lilting a song.
When she’s gone, I begin again,
this time, my knees catch the flow from
mouths of stone. After climbing the
height of two Sears towers to reach
Thorung La Pass, we came down three.
The air palpably thickened on the knee beating
descent to Muktinath. In exchange
for a healing libation from the beasts,
I vowed to drape garlands over the
neck of a lowing cow, in the next village
that housed one.
I catch up with the others at our guesthouse
where Ravi, a boy of 11 serves tea. He walks
from India during the months of pilgrimage
to work at the guest house and contribute
to his family’s wealth.
That night, exhausted on a cot upstairs,
I think of Ravi. I think of the pilgrims
and the westerners, shouting orders at him
every day, I think of his laugh
when he came to our table
and I said, “Want, want, want,
is that all you people ever do?”
I wished for books to
leave with him. I wished for time
for Ravi to live free
to hike through the mountains
just to see them. I wished
for a life he may never know, and I felt
shame cover my own exhaustion
born of freedom, born of wanting
things within my grasp,
born of not knowing the exhaustion
of walking over one hundred miles
to serve demanding people
from carefree cultures ignorant
of poverty's pilgrimage.
they come from India, they come from Tibet,
they mingle with trekkers traveling through.
Muktinath captures trekkers the day they
cross Thorung La Pass on the Annapurna Circuit
of the Himalayan mountains of Nepal. Thorung La
hovers at 17, 769 feet above sea level.
A fountain near the temple of Vishnu
greets us at Muktinath. Water springs
from the ground and is channeled up
through the mouths of stone cow heads
in a line five feet off the ground
on three rock walls. Setting my pack near
a wall, I follow a Hindu pilgrim.
We outstretch our right hands to catch water, and
palm it over our heads. From cow to cow,
I emulate her. She sways my way to say
“Sacred blessing,” lilting a song.
When she’s gone, I begin again,
this time, my knees catch the flow from
mouths of stone. After climbing the
height of two Sears towers to reach
Thorung La Pass, we came down three.
The air palpably thickened on the knee beating
descent to Muktinath. In exchange
for a healing libation from the beasts,
I vowed to drape garlands over the
neck of a lowing cow, in the next village
that housed one.
I catch up with the others at our guesthouse
where Ravi, a boy of 11 serves tea. He walks
from India during the months of pilgrimage
to work at the guest house and contribute
to his family’s wealth.
That night, exhausted on a cot upstairs,
I think of Ravi. I think of the pilgrims
and the westerners, shouting orders at him
every day, I think of his laugh
when he came to our table
and I said, “Want, want, want,
is that all you people ever do?”
I wished for books to
leave with him. I wished for time
for Ravi to live free
to hike through the mountains
just to see them. I wished
for a life he may never know, and I felt
shame cover my own exhaustion
born of freedom, born of wanting
things within my grasp,
born of not knowing the exhaustion
of walking over one hundred miles
to serve demanding people
from carefree cultures ignorant
of poverty's pilgrimage.
Stars
If the entire world agreed
to turn everything off
for 24 hours,
every child in every city
could experience stars
teeming in the cavernous night.
to turn everything off
for 24 hours,
every child in every city
could experience stars
teeming in the cavernous night.
22 April 2010
Earth Dreams
Worry for the earth
circles my dreams.
A revolving desecration
empties her
of oil,
water,
minerals.
How much vacant space
does it take for the shell
to collapse on itself
in one last hurrah?
With pure heart,
tend the earth.
Plant trees to bind
and tunnel her soil.
Marvel when her rivers sing
and listen to her voice with heart.
My heart needs this
small blue dot
so it can race me awake
late at night
from dreams of
cavernous collapsings
that suck me
deep into the belly
of my mother,
Earth.
circles my dreams.
A revolving desecration
empties her
of oil,
water,
minerals.
How much vacant space
does it take for the shell
to collapse on itself
in one last hurrah?
With pure heart,
tend the earth.
Plant trees to bind
and tunnel her soil.
Marvel when her rivers sing
and listen to her voice with heart.
My heart needs this
small blue dot
so it can race me awake
late at night
from dreams of
cavernous collapsings
that suck me
deep into the belly
of my mother,
Earth.
21 April 2010
According to the Pakistan Institute of Physics
~for Thyra--to mark your extroadinary arrival
In Pakistan, on the day
you were born
the horizon’s cyan glow
diffused the edges of clear sky
with the colors of Karachi life.
A man and his monkey
danced in the street until the
new moon occluded the sun.
With blackness,
light greened,
wind ceased,
birds circled,
stars appeared,
dogs howled,
temperatures cooled,
a rooster doodle dooed,
and your light emerged in Montana.
In Pakistan,
people stood
in the streets
with little boxes they made
to look at the sun
as the moon
briefly eclipsed it.
In Montana,
I pushed you out
into the hands
of an angel, relieved
that you were
here,
alive,
and (I looked at your eyes)
shining.
In Pakistan, on the day
you were born
the horizon’s cyan glow
diffused the edges of clear sky
with the colors of Karachi life.
A man and his monkey
danced in the street until the
new moon occluded the sun.
With blackness,
light greened,
wind ceased,
birds circled,
stars appeared,
dogs howled,
temperatures cooled,
a rooster doodle dooed,
and your light emerged in Montana.
In Pakistan,
people stood
in the streets
with little boxes they made
to look at the sun
as the moon
briefly eclipsed it.
In Montana,
I pushed you out
into the hands
of an angel, relieved
that you were
here,
alive,
and (I looked at your eyes)
shining.
19 April 2010
Miss Karen
Karen’s desk surveys the antechamber
to the interrogation room of the AP.
Six chairs face different study carrels
where she answers phone calls about
sick kids, doctor appointments,and
homework requests, all while keeping
a vigilant eye on the sullen row of penance
possibilities that populate the pit.
On a daily visit to check out which of my
lovelies stand accused, Chaz Gladue is there,
laughing with Karen.
“OK, Whadjya do Gladue?” I smile.
He comes back with, “I backhanded Mr. Lancer,”
and I feel my eyes crack out from my head.
“It was an accident.
Enit Miss Karen?” His face
implores her.
“Show her what happened, Chaz,” Karen indicates a carrel.
Chaz sits and places an elbow on the carrel,
“He came up behind me,
to scare me, ya know.”
“Lancer,” Karen rolls her eyes.
Chaz smiles,
“It worked. My arm jerked back
and my fist rammed into his face.
He left all bloody.”
His smile fades, and I ask,
“Is Lancer backing your story?”
“What was it you was saying in class
the other day, Mrs. Warren?
One of them vocab words, ummmm . . . ”
Chaz searches the empty air,
bites his lower lip, then
snaps his fingers,
“Oh yeah,”
he exchanges a look with Karen,
“gullible, enit?”
to the interrogation room of the AP.
Six chairs face different study carrels
where she answers phone calls about
sick kids, doctor appointments,and
homework requests, all while keeping
a vigilant eye on the sullen row of penance
possibilities that populate the pit.
On a daily visit to check out which of my
lovelies stand accused, Chaz Gladue is there,
laughing with Karen.
“OK, Whadjya do Gladue?” I smile.
He comes back with, “I backhanded Mr. Lancer,”
and I feel my eyes crack out from my head.
“It was an accident.
Enit Miss Karen?” His face
implores her.
“Show her what happened, Chaz,” Karen indicates a carrel.
Chaz sits and places an elbow on the carrel,
“He came up behind me,
to scare me, ya know.”
“Lancer,” Karen rolls her eyes.
Chaz smiles,
“It worked. My arm jerked back
and my fist rammed into his face.
He left all bloody.”
His smile fades, and I ask,
“Is Lancer backing your story?”
“What was it you was saying in class
the other day, Mrs. Warren?
One of them vocab words, ummmm . . . ”
Chaz searches the empty air,
bites his lower lip, then
snaps his fingers,
“Oh yeah,”
he exchanges a look with Karen,
“gullible, enit?”
18 April 2010
To the Rocky Top of Hill 57
Zigzagging a route to
the rocky top where
dragons lie in wait,
Hopper and Boon Dog
pull us up Hill 57.
Behind us, at the bottom of
57’s steep face,
a man and dog follow.
Gulping water from a
cool metal bottle, we
turn our faces toward the sun,
then continue across the top of
57’s broad expanse.
“Look Mom,” TL nods across
the hill, “A man.” The hooded
figure quickly walks the perimeter
of 57’s rocky northwest ridge, then
turns and heads back toward
us. Conjuring serial killers, we create
creepy scenarios of a two man hunt.
The victims? Us.
Loose rocks line the
steep descent of
The Dirtbike Path to Freedom.
Halfway down, Hopper stops,
growls, and lunges toward the
killer. Three deep barks
signal warning and protection.
Love for this ferocious beast
overwhelms me. With a
yank on his lead, we travel
toward TL and Boon Dog,
heading down Hill 57’s western slope home.
the rocky top where
dragons lie in wait,
Hopper and Boon Dog
pull us up Hill 57.
Behind us, at the bottom of
57’s steep face,
a man and dog follow.
Gulping water from a
cool metal bottle, we
turn our faces toward the sun,
then continue across the top of
57’s broad expanse.
“Look Mom,” TL nods across
the hill, “A man.” The hooded
figure quickly walks the perimeter
of 57’s rocky northwest ridge, then
turns and heads back toward
us. Conjuring serial killers, we create
creepy scenarios of a two man hunt.
The victims? Us.
Loose rocks line the
steep descent of
The Dirtbike Path to Freedom.
Halfway down, Hopper stops,
growls, and lunges toward the
killer. Three deep barks
signal warning and protection.
Love for this ferocious beast
overwhelms me. With a
yank on his lead, we travel
toward TL and Boon Dog,
heading down Hill 57’s western slope home.
To the Office
Do not pass Go,
Do not collect $200.
His “I didn’t do nothin’”
brings riotous laughter from
the class of students who witnessed
the BB zip through the air and
hit the back of Randall Crane’s head.
The boy is proud of write up #67
in his illustrious two-year career.
Social studies befuddles him, English
looks like Greek. Math fails to inspire him
and science is for geeks. He does not need
teachers to care for him. A clown, he pushes
past his lack of academic skill with classroom
antics that win kids’ hearts.
To the office he goes
day in and day out.
Never catching up.
Academics slide through holes in lives.
Children, left behind, throw BBs, and
sell weed in middle school cafeterias.
They live for the moment their teacher,
arm extended, finger pointed,
finally says, “To the office.”
Hitting air fives with his homeys
BB boy heads down the hall.
Do not collect $200.
His “I didn’t do nothin’”
brings riotous laughter from
the class of students who witnessed
the BB zip through the air and
hit the back of Randall Crane’s head.
The boy is proud of write up #67
in his illustrious two-year career.
Social studies befuddles him, English
looks like Greek. Math fails to inspire him
and science is for geeks. He does not need
teachers to care for him. A clown, he pushes
past his lack of academic skill with classroom
antics that win kids’ hearts.
To the office he goes
day in and day out.
Never catching up.
Academics slide through holes in lives.
Children, left behind, throw BBs, and
sell weed in middle school cafeterias.
They live for the moment their teacher,
arm extended, finger pointed,
finally says, “To the office.”
Hitting air fives with his homeys
BB boy heads down the hall.
17 April 2010
The Sideways Science of the Middle School Student
People in Montana keep quick access to
cold weather clothing until mid June.
Middle school students, however, are peculiar beasts.
Shorts come out during April snowstorms.
Thermometers hover around the thirty degree
mark, and coats mysteriously disappear.
With flip flopped feet Brittany and her crew bounce
down the hall. “Look Mrs. Warren, we’re gonna see
how red our feet get at lunch today.” Giggles burst
from the group. I counter, “It is difficult to walk with
a bounce in your step without toes for balance. If your
toes begin to turn black, be sure to find an adult and
come back inside.” On their way out one of the girls
looks back at me. She grabs Brittany’s shoulder and
says, “Is she for real?” Brittany says, “Didn’t you know?
Mrs. Warren is a CIA operative from the planet ZH8.”
Her voice gets louder and she looks back at me,
“She thinks aliens can impart knowledge through some
kind of astral transmission.” I raise both arms toward
the girls and wiggle my fingers. They scream and exit
the building, leaving a lone pink flip flop in the middle
of the hall.
cold weather clothing until mid June.
Middle school students, however, are peculiar beasts.
Shorts come out during April snowstorms.
Thermometers hover around the thirty degree
mark, and coats mysteriously disappear.
With flip flopped feet Brittany and her crew bounce
down the hall. “Look Mrs. Warren, we’re gonna see
how red our feet get at lunch today.” Giggles burst
from the group. I counter, “It is difficult to walk with
a bounce in your step without toes for balance. If your
toes begin to turn black, be sure to find an adult and
come back inside.” On their way out one of the girls
looks back at me. She grabs Brittany’s shoulder and
says, “Is she for real?” Brittany says, “Didn’t you know?
Mrs. Warren is a CIA operative from the planet ZH8.”
Her voice gets louder and she looks back at me,
“She thinks aliens can impart knowledge through some
kind of astral transmission.” I raise both arms toward
the girls and wiggle my fingers. They scream and exit
the building, leaving a lone pink flip flop in the middle
of the hall.
16 April 2010
Already Dead
The sun illuminates pristine snow
on the Spanish Peaks the morning
of my wedding. Outside Soldier’s
Chapel my mind whirls.
I will be a confident bride,
I will be a confident bride.
Stuart Weber’s classical guitar begins
the processional, Jesu, Joy of Man’s
Desiring, my cue. With one last look
at the Spanish Peaks, I enter the chapel
and start down the aisle, a bouquet of
daisies pressed against my sternum.
One one thousand take a step.
Two one thousand take a step.
Stand tall. Smile.
All eyes on the bride. The
wedding party waits at the altar.
What am I doing? Stop. Go back. The
mountains are calling my name.
Between the maid of honor and the
groom, my world tilts. Movement, a
fly on the floor, captures me. Little legs
kick at the air flailing circumstance.
It needs to be righted. It needs me. It’s dying.
What am I doing?
The preacher marries us. The groom
kisses me, and the congregation
cheers. We are presented:
Mr. and Mrs. I Promise
I Won’t Hit You Again.
When the receiving line ends, I rush
back to the altar to right the fly.
But I’m too late, it’s already dead.
on the Spanish Peaks the morning
of my wedding. Outside Soldier’s
Chapel my mind whirls.
I will be a confident bride,
I will be a confident bride.
Stuart Weber’s classical guitar begins
the processional, Jesu, Joy of Man’s
Desiring, my cue. With one last look
at the Spanish Peaks, I enter the chapel
and start down the aisle, a bouquet of
daisies pressed against my sternum.
One one thousand take a step.
Two one thousand take a step.
Stand tall. Smile.
All eyes on the bride. The
wedding party waits at the altar.
What am I doing? Stop. Go back. The
mountains are calling my name.
Between the maid of honor and the
groom, my world tilts. Movement, a
fly on the floor, captures me. Little legs
kick at the air flailing circumstance.
It needs to be righted. It needs me. It’s dying.
What am I doing?
The preacher marries us. The groom
kisses me, and the congregation
cheers. We are presented:
Mr. and Mrs. I Promise
I Won’t Hit You Again.
When the receiving line ends, I rush
back to the altar to right the fly.
But I’m too late, it’s already dead.
15 April 2010
Benign
Something about anything would not come, so Sierra marched up to Molson’s desk, journal in hand. “What do you mean, something about anything?”
“For instance, Sierra,” Molson holds up his own journal and in a low voice reads, “Every spring an army of ants invades the kitchen of his mother’s house. They climb up walls, and the side of the white plastic garbage can at the top of the stairs. Every time Oscar ascends from the depths of his basement hole, he counts them, and announces the count to anyone who cares, “27 ants.” Molson stops and looks at Sierra.
“You want me to write about bugs?” She wrinkles her nose.
Molson says, “Write about something you know, Sierra. I know about ants climbing the side of a garbage can. I know how difficult ants can be to control. It has to do with cleanliness, of course, but that is beside the point, or maybe that is the point, hmm . . .” He stops and writes the words controlling ants=cleanliness in his journal, then continues, “The point is Sierra, pick something mundane, something ordinary in your life, write a story around it. I started with ants. You can start with anything ordinary in your life. Write it, watch it grow.” He motioned with his hand toward her desk.
Sierra walked back to her desk, everyone else in class was writing. Now it was her turn. She sat down and looked at the clock— 22 minutes. She began.
The pregnancy stick looks so benign.
Sierra knew the word benign because Molson used it as what he called a “sometimes” synonym for the word mundane. She also knew it meant that whatever they cut out of your body would not kill you, as in, the cancer is benign.
That’s probably a good thing, Joy thought. She was sitting on the toilet in her Step-mom’s sister’s bathroom, holding the stick in her pee. The box said that it would be a + if she was pregnant. It said to wait for results. She didn’t have to wait long. Joy looked down at the stick. It didn’t look so benign now. It cut out a piece of her right then and there. This was one of those “defining moments” her English teacher always talks about.
Sierra sat up and looked at the clock again, thinking. What next...she didn’t know. She looked across the room at her best friend Jess, wondering where words were taking her. Jess was her inspiration for Joy. Sierra had no idea what Jess would do with her pregnancy. Her pregnancy, it made Sierra shudder to think about it. 15 minutes remained. Sierra decided to reread what she’d written before continuing. Molson always says to do that, and sometimes the story writes itself. “Let it come, let it go,” Molson says from one of the monthly Caldecott books he shares, A Story, A Story.
Sierra let it come.
Never one to cry and let life run her course for her, Joy takes action. She contacts Planned Parenthood and sets up an appointment with a pregnancy counselor. Joy knows that they will tell her about all of the options out there: abortion, adoption, open adoption, and raising a child. Joy knows what she wants. She asks the counselor about places where girls can live for the duration of their pregnancy, and give the baby to a family to raise. That’s what Joy wants to do with her pregnancy. She doesn’t want to tell LJ, because she’s afraid he’ll tell her it isn’t his baby. She’s afraid he’ll scream at her. She’s afraid he’ll call her a whore, or a slut, or a hose-bag. She’s even afraid he might kick her, or swing one of his rock-hard fists into her face and scream, “WHO ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING, BITCH!!” with his rank cigarette stained breath.
Sierra’s sharp intake of breath as she sat back in her chair was loud enough that three people looked up: Molson, L. J. Jones, and Jess. Each one of them looked at her. Sierra looked down, and scratched out everything she had written. She ripped the pages from her journal, went to the trashcan, and she shredded them.
Molson looked at Sierra and said, “Good stuff, eh.” with this weird knowing grin on his face.
“For instance, Sierra,” Molson holds up his own journal and in a low voice reads, “Every spring an army of ants invades the kitchen of his mother’s house. They climb up walls, and the side of the white plastic garbage can at the top of the stairs. Every time Oscar ascends from the depths of his basement hole, he counts them, and announces the count to anyone who cares, “27 ants.” Molson stops and looks at Sierra.
“You want me to write about bugs?” She wrinkles her nose.
Molson says, “Write about something you know, Sierra. I know about ants climbing the side of a garbage can. I know how difficult ants can be to control. It has to do with cleanliness, of course, but that is beside the point, or maybe that is the point, hmm . . .” He stops and writes the words controlling ants=cleanliness in his journal, then continues, “The point is Sierra, pick something mundane, something ordinary in your life, write a story around it. I started with ants. You can start with anything ordinary in your life. Write it, watch it grow.” He motioned with his hand toward her desk.
Sierra walked back to her desk, everyone else in class was writing. Now it was her turn. She sat down and looked at the clock— 22 minutes. She began.
The pregnancy stick looks so benign.
Sierra knew the word benign because Molson used it as what he called a “sometimes” synonym for the word mundane. She also knew it meant that whatever they cut out of your body would not kill you, as in, the cancer is benign.
That’s probably a good thing, Joy thought. She was sitting on the toilet in her Step-mom’s sister’s bathroom, holding the stick in her pee. The box said that it would be a + if she was pregnant. It said to wait for results. She didn’t have to wait long. Joy looked down at the stick. It didn’t look so benign now. It cut out a piece of her right then and there. This was one of those “defining moments” her English teacher always talks about.
Sierra sat up and looked at the clock again, thinking. What next...she didn’t know. She looked across the room at her best friend Jess, wondering where words were taking her. Jess was her inspiration for Joy. Sierra had no idea what Jess would do with her pregnancy. Her pregnancy, it made Sierra shudder to think about it. 15 minutes remained. Sierra decided to reread what she’d written before continuing. Molson always says to do that, and sometimes the story writes itself. “Let it come, let it go,” Molson says from one of the monthly Caldecott books he shares, A Story, A Story.
Sierra let it come.
Never one to cry and let life run her course for her, Joy takes action. She contacts Planned Parenthood and sets up an appointment with a pregnancy counselor. Joy knows that they will tell her about all of the options out there: abortion, adoption, open adoption, and raising a child. Joy knows what she wants. She asks the counselor about places where girls can live for the duration of their pregnancy, and give the baby to a family to raise. That’s what Joy wants to do with her pregnancy. She doesn’t want to tell LJ, because she’s afraid he’ll tell her it isn’t his baby. She’s afraid he’ll scream at her. She’s afraid he’ll call her a whore, or a slut, or a hose-bag. She’s even afraid he might kick her, or swing one of his rock-hard fists into her face and scream, “WHO ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING, BITCH!!” with his rank cigarette stained breath.
Sierra’s sharp intake of breath as she sat back in her chair was loud enough that three people looked up: Molson, L. J. Jones, and Jess. Each one of them looked at her. Sierra looked down, and scratched out everything she had written. She ripped the pages from her journal, went to the trashcan, and she shredded them.
Molson looked at Sierra and said, “Good stuff, eh.” with this weird knowing grin on his face.
13 April 2010
My Love
Opening closets
to let out skeletons,
we dance side by side stories
spinning out secrets
lived before Us.
The secrets release
threadlike traces—
spirit between us—
pulling
me to you
to me to you
to we.
Your moist whisper
speaks naked sugar,
as we glisten with
fever’s sacred caress,
and dissolve
into all that is.
to let out skeletons,
we dance side by side stories
spinning out secrets
lived before Us.
The secrets release
threadlike traces—
spirit between us—
pulling
me to you
to me to you
to we.
Your moist whisper
speaks naked sugar,
as we glisten with
fever’s sacred caress,
and dissolve
into all that is.
Because Love Fills Me
It is April.
Angry pixies fling
snow from the sky.
Palms pressed together,
I bow in their presence
to thank them for whitening
my world . I want
to make them smile.
Mouth open, I throw back my head
open my arms, and spin love,
appeasing the pixies.
The snow ceases,
and I laugh out loud.
Angry pixies fling
snow from the sky.
Palms pressed together,
I bow in their presence
to thank them for whitening
my world . I want
to make them smile.
Mouth open, I throw back my head
open my arms, and spin love,
appeasing the pixies.
The snow ceases,
and I laugh out loud.
12 April 2010
Condon, Montana
The Fourth of July barricades Montana 83
for a parade that runs through Condon.
Liquid Louie’s starts serving beer at 11.
A menagerie of beasts and vehicles carry
people in from the surrounding mountains.
White and blue streamers cover us in the
back of a 1960 red Buick convertible. For
10 minutes, we throw candy down a mile
long stretch of highway, then turn off the
parade route, waving at the backlog of RVs
with boats, motorcycles, and cars waiting
to get on with their day.
—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist—
After the festivities, Len and I jump in
the Jeep and head south to Fir Lane.
A few miles from Condon, we spy a
bald eagle flying overhead carrying
a big ass trout in its talons. The bird
drops the fish on the grassy shoulder
of Montana 83. We stop to pick up
dinner on the way home.
God Bless America!
for a parade that runs through Condon.
Liquid Louie’s starts serving beer at 11.
A menagerie of beasts and vehicles carry
people in from the surrounding mountains.
White and blue streamers cover us in the
back of a 1960 red Buick convertible. For
10 minutes, we throw candy down a mile
long stretch of highway, then turn off the
parade route, waving at the backlog of RVs
with boats, motorcycles, and cars waiting
to get on with their day.
—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist—
After the festivities, Len and I jump in
the Jeep and head south to Fir Lane.
A few miles from Condon, we spy a
bald eagle flying overhead carrying
a big ass trout in its talons. The bird
drops the fish on the grassy shoulder
of Montana 83. We stop to pick up
dinner on the way home.
God Bless America!
11 April 2010
The Last Poem
The last poem I ever write
may be in my head
on my way to dead.
I hope it’s a funny one
without any ants.
The Last Ant
There will never be one.
Not ever.
Last Sane Thought
I imagine my trail toward insanity
littered with ants crawling
in through my nose
tunneling gray matter
feasting trails in my brain.
A single ant exits across my eyeball
I hold completely still and watch it
cover my world.
may be in my head
on my way to dead.
I hope it’s a funny one
without any ants.
The Last Ant
There will never be one.
Not ever.
Last Sane Thought
I imagine my trail toward insanity
littered with ants crawling
in through my nose
tunneling gray matter
feasting trails in my brain.
A single ant exits across my eyeball
I hold completely still and watch it
cover my world.
eleven
She draws a pentacle in the middle of my floor,
touches each of its five tips with a toe
and twirls like a skater in its center
spinning power from the day’s prime source.
touches each of its five tips with a toe
and twirls like a skater in its center
spinning power from the day’s prime source.
10 April 2010
Ant Log
It is my belief that the ants are developing a resistance to Terro. Somehow it is entering their little ant bodies sending resistance to future generations. They drink at the trough, but they keep coming back –ants on dogs, ants on me. Yesterday I lost control and killed 15 ants before I finally stopped finding them. Today an ant charged me in the kitchen. Most of its kin run from feet. Other humans verified the charging ant. One thought it was his reincarnated grandpa, and we all stepped aside.
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