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
if i gnaw out my fragile heart
canines slavering through flesh
the way wolves trapped
will desperately gnaw off
a leg to escape the hunter
will I be free with only a blood
limped trace dropped like roses
through freshly fallen snow
to mark my passage like stale crumbs
scattered across the frozen forest floor
a vaguely cogent sentence fragment
to parse a meaning into salvation
will I see in time the breach
open wide enough to squeeze
rock against chest between
tightly held breaths balanced
on a desperate fear that I have
lost the best bits of myself
(December 1, 2020)
When my mother died,
I did not get another—
one being
more than enough
for a lifetime.
(November 20, 2020)
with an accent slightly different
than any dialect spoken here
a hole opens around us like an amoeba
and we are contained within
an other’s misinterpretation
as if we were not a part
of the conversation like a rock
is not a part of the river
which erases incrementally
shaping the rock as it surges past
oblivious like memory to the change
as each remembrance rises
to take dominion everywhere
if only for the moment it takes
to speak and then to unhear
all the patterns which brought us here
(November 19, 2020)
The odds are I won’t;
Yet, someone will die today:
I let the bones roll.
(November 16, 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)
