Of Seasons

September is the season

for shipwrecks and bear attacks.

Don't be a sailor or hiker in the fall.

Save your recklessness 

for the month

of orchids and snapdragons.

In April, buds peek out from the thawing

earth and the stars align

over chicks, foals, and calves.

Plus (more importantly)

the puddles are ripe

for jumping.

I think it was William Carlos Williams

who once said:

'So much depends upon

the children

gathering Easter eggs

in their Sunday best

just a stone's throw

from robin eggs

and fierce mothers

protecting their future.'

In September, apples turn to mush

on the sidewalk

and hunters dust off

their guns.

But no one fears death

in the spring.

And She Floated Away

Last night my sheep ate the moon.

No, really.

The moon was just cresting

over the field where she was grazing

and she stretched out her neck

and swallowed it whole.

Suddenly, the night was pitch black

and she was bleating moonbeams.

I stared at my empty hands—

I wanted to be refracted light too.

 

I bet the moon is made of

cream of tartar—

the same chemical breakdown, I mean.

That makes good sense.

But just a gigantic ball of it,

rather than a teaspoon

in a batch of sugar cookies.

 

But the night air was sweet in its own way—

delicious even.

And the stars continued to shine—

fearlessly.

Her wool started to glow,

pin pricks of light emitting

from the tip of each strand,

Her hooves turned translucent white

like four little lanterns

and over the meadow—

she began to rise.

Dissociative Identity Disorder

We go back to the soft mind 

before the fracture 

into glass shards— 

the shattering of a lovely 

 box of mirrors. 

 Lincoln—an old man in a nursing home, 

feasting on chocolate pudding, 

wondering if this episode of 

 Judge Judy would be his last. 

 Becca—a teenager living in a box 

behind the Hot Girlzzz strip club 

surviving on garbage 

and the change in some guy’s pocket 

after a quickie. 

Sandy—the middle-age homemaker 

addicted to painkillers and Adderall, 

just trying to get through 

the next school bake sale. 

And Sonny especially—the little boy 

hiding under the stairs, 

pretending he was playing 

hide-and-seek 

with so-called friends 

and not crouching 

just beyond the reach 

of long arms and scraping fingernails 

of the bad man cursing outside 

the closet door. 

And, of course, Voices. 

They need their own homes too. 

We become glistening 

splinters of light and sound— 

Sandy overdoses on heroin 

when her doctor cuts her off. 

Becca loses her battle with HIV. 

Lincoln’s heart finally gives out 

during Monday night bingo. And Sonny 

is lying on the bed 

wishing he was dead too.

Latch and Key

I still have the doorknob for the daisy

attic bedroom of my home at age twelve.

I really craved a skeleton key—

stealing the cellar key takes more resolve.

I’d probably be haunted by Southern ghosts—

we were part of the Underground Railroad.

The term “we” is used loosely by most.

These days abolition is such a fad.

I found it the other day—the knob I mean—

deep in a box of trinkets and make-up—

held the cool iron in my palm again

until I felt a poke and let it drop—

THUNK!—on the wooden floor, a fatal sound—

heard a laugh from the cellar underground.