Ode to My Drawer’s Drawers

Oh you, gentle drawer.
Caught with your pants down again, someone peering into your host
of hoard.

I’ve found the pile of photographs, each snippet of life
shaded with perfect light, or candid 5×7
waking the worst of sorrow and sleep and sweet painful singing

from me.

I’ve found the green notebook, giving life
of lingering wishes, and narrations of new
intimate declarations unpacked

in its spine.

Do you not see the undeveloped film? The wonders
in your cave?
Are the feelings found in the flurry of fever
at being discovered again?

Do not tempt me, gentle drawer,
Your wares are meant to be encased inside
Your ravages each their crystal showcase

unlocking my cry.

I’ve found her here, her jeweled necklace broken
at the clasp and unwearable
she

can’t materialize from your depths, dear drawer.

Let her rest.
Let her be.
Show how you can have pity on me

Oh you, gentle drawer.

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I Never Knew That Man

I never asked you
what kind of man he was.
I saw him every morning, eating bananas, silent.
I walked beside him at the store, skipping sometimes to the spaghettios
and he’d count the cans with me as we put them in the cart.

I spent a lifetime loving you both, never knowing much
about the reality of two.
What kind of husband?
What kind of wife were you?

I never knew that man.

He was always reminding me to tie my shoes,
reminding you to take your pills,
or stir the pot so it wouldn’t burn
He bickered with you, about the zinnias
or the stew, the people you and he both knew
And he would call you “Lee” and I knew that married couples argued

But I never knew that man. Continue reading

It Happens Again

The same birdcall, half past seven
This time, fog curls around my ankles like a chilled cat
as I step onto the pavement to greet the sound.
The cable-knit of my sleeves wrap me in my own embrace
my shins aching still with sleep

and it happens again.

The same balloon in the sky, just after dawn,
the air pink and yawning, the heat unpresent.
The speck inside the balloon opens and closes the mouth of the envelope
making muted banshee sounds of hot air.
The speck of thrush flies below the basket
optical illusion
thrush supporting a miniature hot air balloon

and it happens again.

The swing creaks under my weight,
groaning like a day laborer with aching shins,
my coffee dribbles over the lip of my cup
my flicking tongue missing a drop that singes my skin
and bleeds into my knee, wrapped underneath.
I’m ready to open a new book
inhale the birdsong, invoke the balloonist to wave at me

and it happens again.

You are the home I slept in when ill,
the thrush call coming through your open window
before you embraced me in your sweater to keep out the chill.

You are the earlybird, waking to show me the magical specks in the sky
the recreational hoppers who sail to Oz every morning
and exclaim how you have always wanted to fly.

You are my swing companion, always spilling your coffee on your shirt
and telling me corny jokes as the day cracks its knuckles
and throws its beauty onto your face.

I open my book and inhale the wind,

and you happen again.