Where Eyes are Clouds that Weep
My car kidnaps me, takes
me there—to the last
graveyard where the tombstones read,
Joy and Hope,
where my eyes are clouds that weep
upon grass that will never
again be green, and the cut
flowers there will never
fall to seed.
I tiptoe back
to the car; careful not to wake
Despair who lies
in wait in the ashy forest just beyond
the cemetery gate with your choice
of pills or
shiny revolver.
Crushed
How I wish that I had drown the little bird
as soon as it had hatched…
No, I should have taken the egg before it was born,
before I spent hours keeping it
warm against my heart;
before I watched it beat its head
through the protective shell;
before I watched its wet down fluff into feathers
on capable wings that took it up, up so high,
soaring excitedly into the blue, blue sky;
before you shot it down. Yes, I should have
crushed the shell into shards,
stomped it into the ground,
while the bird was still
just an idea, just yellow slime.
Persimmon Road
I did not want to go down
this dreary dirt road, harboring
ruts and a rickety bridge
that floods. When I dream
of you I’m stuck in safe
familiarity—my hands cuffed
to you, to keep me
from drowning. You pluck
a persimmon from the dying
tree and force me to swallow it
whole— the bitter skin,
the sweetness underneath,
the little fork and knife,
hiding. In the dream
we’re in my car, and always
you drive. But soon I throw up
the knife and use it to unlock
the handcuffs. The slippery road is
overrun with water; so I carefully
step onto fallen limbs
lying in the ditch, and try
to balance. It’s difficult, but
I am still walking
when the dream ends.
I think
I make it over the bridge,
and I am pretty sure
I do it with my own two feet.
My car kidnaps me, takes
me there—to the last
graveyard where the tombstones read,
Joy and Hope,
where my eyes are clouds that weep
upon grass that will never
again be green, and the cut
flowers there will never
fall to seed.
I tiptoe back
to the car; careful not to wake
Despair who lies
in wait in the ashy forest just beyond
the cemetery gate with your choice
of pills or
shiny revolver.
Crushed
How I wish that I had drown the little bird
as soon as it had hatched…
No, I should have taken the egg before it was born,
before I spent hours keeping it
warm against my heart;
before I watched it beat its head
through the protective shell;
before I watched its wet down fluff into feathers
on capable wings that took it up, up so high,
soaring excitedly into the blue, blue sky;
before you shot it down. Yes, I should have
crushed the shell into shards,
stomped it into the ground,
while the bird was still
just an idea, just yellow slime.
Persimmon Road
I did not want to go down
this dreary dirt road, harboring
ruts and a rickety bridge
that floods. When I dream
of you I’m stuck in safe
familiarity—my hands cuffed
to you, to keep me
from drowning. You pluck
a persimmon from the dying
tree and force me to swallow it
whole— the bitter skin,
the sweetness underneath,
the little fork and knife,
hiding. In the dream
we’re in my car, and always
you drive. But soon I throw up
the knife and use it to unlock
the handcuffs. The slippery road is
overrun with water; so I carefully
step onto fallen limbs
lying in the ditch, and try
to balance. It’s difficult, but
I am still walking
when the dream ends.
I think
I make it over the bridge,
and I am pretty sure
I do it with my own two feet.
