Tag: fire

poetry

Bestiary: Tick

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Bestiary: Tick

From a prompt by Aimee Nezhukumatathil.

because you fill the staid eastern woods with peril
parachuting down onto my bared unsuspecting neck
attaching yourself to my calves when
I think I’ve only had a brush with Solomon’s seal
crawling into my nooks so gently
I never notice your prowling

because you bite me so tenderly that I don’t even register
my warm blood shunting into
your stiff brown accordion abdomen
because with every suck there’s the possibility
that a virulent part of you
will wend its way back to me

I should consider being cautious

but because you dwell out there in the wilds
in the forests and the grasslands
along the singletrack and the bluestem
in the waist-high green of off-the-beaten-path
I can’t help but risk another run-in:
the cost of doing business, as they say

you should consider being cautious

because although I’ll not put a match to you
(too dangerous for both of us)
I will pluck you out with tweezers
your flat/fat abdomen squeezed tight in the metal
then dump you in the empty peanut butter jar
where you may circle for days until the oxygen’s all expended –
my insurance in case I fall ill later
and your corpse requires testing

so think twice before you sink those greedy mandibles
into my soft pink flesh

poetry

Feeling Grateful

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Feeling Grateful

at the spring band concert
it’s not like fall

yes, we are the same people
lined up in the same hallway
to watch the same kids
play the same instruments
in the same black and white clothes
but we’re not the same

the talk is of the fire
where were you?
how are you?
where are you living now?
and the undercurrent in every conversation is
I’m so glad you’re still alive
your kid is still alive
we’re still alive

not all the instruments are the same
not all the black and white clothes made it
but we all did
we’re all still alive and here to listen
to the sixth graders labor through Lean on Me
and the Jazz Band absolutely kill it
playing Feeling Good

poetry

shirts vs. skins

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shirts vs. skins

I’m not the one to draw up the plans.
I’m not the one to sift the ash.
I’m not the one to load the backhoe.
I’m not the one to lay the brick.
I’m not the one to fix the problem.
I’m not the one to make things right.
I’m not the one to keep my promise.
I’m not the one to clear the air.
I’m not the one to turn the soil.
instead
I’m the one to think I know better.
I’m the one to tell how things should be.
I’m the one to shake my head disapprovingly.
I’m the one to ignore the warning signs.
I’m the one to coach from the sidelines.
I’m the one with no skin in the game.

poetry

inviting fire

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inviting fire

in the cabin it’s warm
but not cozy

the crackle and flicker
the exuberance of combustion
are missing

sometimes fire sits with us
like an old friend

sometimes it levels us
poof
all up in smoke

poetry

natural dissonance

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natural dissonance

the irony isn’t lost on me
running the air purifier
and the oven self-clean cycle
simultaneously:
we all do our best
to manage our inconsistencies

in the dark
under the stars
Fennec is tense with listening
uncomfortable to be out in the wild night
but curious what’s here

inside, the boys squabble over
who can help rip out the carpet
Alex says it’s like Huck Finn
but we all breathe easier
when the orange shag’s removed

at the spring
we all look up and know
this is why we’re here

poetry

trying to get clean

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trying to get clean

air purifiers –
hot new accessory of the 2020s
with prefilters in an array of colors
to match your moods –
I go for charcoal
over electric blue

when we open it
the boys discuss how it compares
to the ones at their schools
especially in their auditoriums

it’s one more thing I’ve never dealt with
that these times demand

poetry

first night at the cabin

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first night at the cabin

burning our wedding candle
twenty-one years later
at nine thousand feet
surrounded by snow
the flame gives me joy

I don’t worry it will go out
or burn the house down
I just admire
its warm glow
on my bare skin

poetry

one community under fire

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Photo by Cliff Grassmick, Boulder Daily Camera.

one community under fire

there’s a danger of becoming three factions:
*lost your home
*displaced by damage
*unaffected

our day-to-day is so different
but we all love this place
and want a say in our future

what can save us?
listening

poetry

the will of the people

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Photo by Johnnie Havard.

the will of the people

there’s the decision date
and the decision point
the fulcrum the inflection point
beyond which the momentum
seems to go one way
after that the vote becomes a formality
because the community has chosen

it’s much harder to pinpoint on the calendar
it’s why people say
keep an ear to the ground:
listen for the stampede
so you can join in or get out of the way

poetry

unmasking

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Photo from The Flint Journal showing masked auto workers in 1918.

unmasking

Thinking of our relatives who died from diphtheria: my grandfather’s mother Rosemary Farley Schaaf (seen in the sidebar photo here), my grandmother’s sisters Frances and Josephine Barber, and Alex’s grandmother’s siblings Ruth and Bert Waldman.

Friday they will unmask us
and what will our faces do?
twitch nervously or beam gratefully?

after two years of suspended anticipation
my hope muscles have atrophied
I’ve lost the knack for moving on, moving forward

we’ve no link with the 1918 survivors –
the year my grandfather was born,
he’d no memory of it

instead, diphtheria is the story my husband and I grew up with:
four of our grandparents’ siblings and one mother claimed
while our grandparents were still children

now we get the Tdap or DTaP shot and
our grandparents’ devastating loss feels like
something from a different world

but those 1918 flu survivors –
how did they shed their masks and re-emerge?
how did masking become unknown to us all again?

I’ve lost my bearings for judging what is safe
I don’t even know what Greek letter comes next
let alone how to recognize it hovering on the horizon

it’s like trying to judge which smoke is from California
and which is from the next block
ready to claim what’s yours

in these days
when threats are everywhere
and we’ve grown unacquainted with joy

I still can’t imagine bringing my naked face
somewhere it could calmly swallow
anything new