"specificities" poems
has never seen a wisteria tree.
has seen a willow tree, from a distance, and
grew up near four cherry trees that would
flower early every spring, light pink and white petals
only there for a moment-
only to be knocked off
to rot in piles on the driveway, petals
falling onto the asphalt, onto shoulders,
falling all around and feeling like a dream.
imagines a wisteria tree a little like that-
feeling like a dream.
hearing, somewhere that they're beautiful
when in bloom-
purple? maybe?
light blue? Also a possibility-
wonders what they're like when not,
spindly branches or thick twisting ones,
unsure of the specificities but knows that
it is beautiful because it is real,
somewhere else,
some other frame of reference.
has seen an aspen tree, the Rockies alive with them
standing on a mountain and looking out at the
waves of them and thinking that maybe that the Earth
breathes too, that
it was her chest rising and falling too
slow to perceive with
human eyes.
knows nothing of the aspen's fate from a plague of beetles,
remembers someone describing the trees as
being "eaten alive" but doesn't remember quite
who said it.
has seen a pine tree, climbed its branches as a child,
places warm palms against its trunk now,
every once and awhile looks up and
remembers how it felt-
how what felt?
the beginning of everything-
of looking out into the
sprawling earth as she breathes,
and the vast emptiness of the sky
and feeling alive.
has seen an oak tree, planted one in fact,
has Not seen a redwood.
does not know what a cherry or maple looks like
despite best efforts,
cannot remember the beetles,
despite best efforts,
cannot reach the top of the pine,
despite best efforts,
still cannot picture the wisteria tree.
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
(lost 13% of my baby)
the littlest one turned three in May,
haven’t seen her in the flesh since March,
parents inform, all gone,
they’ll be disappearing
to another state,
all of July, gonzo.
I say
go forth safely, that’s great.
redefining social distancing.
measured not in feet,
or even by Sara B.’s
borrowed ‘many the miles,’
but in longer specificities:
maturities,
weeks and months,
parts of years,
parts of lives,
March, April,
May, June,
now July.
five months.
counted them on one hand,
many times,
at 3:00am
cause I could not believe
the summing of my subtraction
somehow disappeared,
from our calendars
these monthly ** markings,
months wiped clean permanently.
did a quick calculation.
we’ve lost 13% of her
entire life,
can’t be regained.
her first:
big girl bed,
playing first video game,
another birthday party,
candles extinguished by
a single big girl blowing,
dancing, dancing, and more,
driving her scooter in the apartment,
like only a mad woman can,
(stuffed animal riding the handlebars,)
blowing pretend Zooming belly kisses
on her button,
hiding neath the dining room table,
her laughing uproariously,
with never a “stop poppy.”
13%.
a specific amount,
a poem irretrievable,
a blood loss, that
can’t be transfused,
plasma irreplaceable,
containing antibodies
to a specific virus
Sorrow Unique-19
nah,
nothing
it got nothing
to do with that new forehead
furrow, that slow-suddenly appeared.
nah.
“just, these are the days...”^
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 1:21 PM UTC
Who among us has not?
Well...
Well, what?
Specificities fall to the floor:
we are what we are.
Nothing more.
Nothing more.
Tears refuse to fall
Or cannot help but remain.
Tears or notears, poison all the same.
The walking Shadow:
relentless in its crawling means.
What of Sound?
What of Fury?
I hope
I hope
I hope....
I hope your eyes bleed until the light pours out.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
[we live]
these
days
eyes, raw ringed: mauve.
dustcurtains. lung-still
and dry
cover gasping-
fingers sanded down, dusted away
to later be inlaid
with something
else.
grappling clever-
broken bird feet.
the gaping is wide enough down here
even
for you
wanting to be a victim of something good-
lapping up *** of(f) belly hair
entangled.
and
as every human speck
fights for selfpreservation- without clairvoyance or beauty.
as the mud pumps.
as carmen plays.
as we die again in less than convenient specificities.
we will be replaced.
like furniture.
and those who seek to optimize everything
right down the efficiency of shampoo in the shower-
will leave with nothing
more than a clean head of hair
to fall from these, slowly
or quicker than that- depending on the mood of it. and things like
cancer.
and when the chemicals
find you
laying there alone. and sleepy
they will know to carry you outside into the yard. where the grass is
waiting
and the road is waiting
and the rain.
and the sound of cars.
and of trees.
big-fucking-trees.
roots gnarled meanly into the dark.rotty droppings of their boughs.
cold. mighty- dragging their bruisey knuckles against the
dirt
trees with ghosts
bigger than your thumbnails.
older than the grossest things in your
waste-basket.
tree-er than
tree.
and when the car swerves
and hits
i will be there.
sinking with you
into the the reservoir
doors closed.
belted.
and good
.but
i will be
and we
fall apart
don't speak
for days.
learn of the other too late.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC