when mom died
we scattered her ashes
near the New Sweden cemetery
the chill wind swirled
like a witch’s spell
I inhaled then spat her out
today a cold wind dances
fall leaves down the street
I cough slightly then spit
(December 2, 2020)
“interwoven by the tragic spiders of the present”
—Ingeborg Bachman
I am not
who i was
nor who I will be
I am only
who I am
nothing
and no one
nothing more
than anyone
memory lies
laughing
like autumn leaves
feed
the ground
from which spring
emerges
knowing
only itself
When my mother died,
I did not get another—
one being
more than enough
for a lifetime.
(November 20, 2020)
I cannot see much of life
beyond the ragged hedgerow
I’ve grown from broken thorns
scattered like blood
across still water
unless the walls fall
and all the little boxes
open like rain misting
the tightly trimmed
topiary with ice
and the cold parenthesis
cracks like cicadas’ wings
as i slip from myself
a worm through earth’s minutia
feeding on the remains
and fragments that were mine
(November 13, 2020)
this labyrinth has no end
no center in which to be eaten
no twine to trace an origin
just a blind turn toward hope
a quick glance back toward despair
one cannot be lost without direction
yet our angled descent is certain
I can see the sun before it sets
listen to the fuss of squirrel and jay
or be consumed in worry’s fire
there is no clear path to happiness
we are always here
(November 5, 2020)
we must wait
without fear
for the end
memory’s a mirror
distorted anew
in each reflection
rippled across a dark pond
(November 4, 2020)
the well offers no echo
for the truth to rise upon
to allow her to step screaming
from the water’s cold depths
to shatter the infinite mirrors
where we live out our lives
(November 1. 2020)
like an old dog
circling his bed
i turn then turn
the idea around
a phrase a word
a memory
until the floor’s
worn away
and i fall
a slow spiral
like a rock
bounces against
a stone wall
and steps
with a clatter
before it stops
and I wonder
as if the thought
mattered
(October 30, 2020)
crow turns her blacker eye
deeper into the night
then one last direful cry
before she takes flight
(October 28, 2020)
as familiar as the cat
on the sill watching
a mockingbird outside
this melodrama’s cliché unfolds
I pull another brick
into my sepulcher
another dead anger
to crush my chest
another tired
misunderstanding
another regret to haunt
my moist graveyard
(October 27, 2020)
