still life

Rivane Neuenschwander. The Silence of the Sirens. 2013.

The sky is mute.
My palms soft.

The future broke.
Your hands found me wanting.

Shared recognition creates intimacy
when the public body is an impulse.

Wild as blessings, and just as sacred,
I come wide, spread open.

Living a literal life
is an obedient life.

My feed is deepfake informative
so I reduce truth to metaphor.

Wandering ribs is a radical referent.
We’ve been promised what does not exist.

Birds bob and sway
above the frothy noise.

landscape analysis

you’re getting too caught up in things that don’t matter (artist: unknown)

dreams of meat
fractured rendering
time wasted
a scarce luxury

this kind of clarity
born from salvation
a knowing how petty
being a victim can be

in classic tactile evasion
you beg for cruelty before comfort
caught in a familiar discordant loop
arrested in rustic sanctuary

passive as a twinned body
swallowing your present tense
to breast the wave
then shred your fears of impotence

these kinds of clearings
a place where light abandons control
are at the edges of regeneration
the poetics of follow through

blue noise

artist: unknown

Maybe if I loved her enough, my mother would heal. – Chana Wilson, Riding Fury Home

My mom officially disappeared from our family when I was thirteen. To be fair, she did not know she’d be leaving her four daughters that day either. When she left the house, she had packed nothing but her purse. Dispossessed, my memories are inscribed into a tight buzzing chest, rushed breathing, and anxious as self-doubt. These memories are my limbic system, the circuits of my mood board. I learned decades later my father took her purse as the only door out of the mental institution shut in her face.

The memories I have exist because I was there but that is as far as my truth can extend, the rest are now privatized myths. To be honest, my mom had been disappearing long before that fateful day. The silence in between seeing her was seasonless and evokes the dreamy concept of eternity for me.

It is true some winters the prairie grass reached taller than the snow drifts. To be obnoxious, you can read snow drifts as a noun or a verb. In that way, my teenage years were a righteous alchemy of oblivion and riot. I remember watching my mom’s need to earn her perfection and how she absorbed all his taking. I deducted a respect for witness and learned early that quiet violence swells. Infinite in its exhaustion, my realities are at best uncertain, which means I have the capacity to refine and revise.

I learned the art and practice of possibility from my mom. To be obvious, I owe my mom my life even if she wasn’t there for most of it. I let go of contempt for she also holds dreams of the horizon inside her.

reputable entry

We want what a god wants: to own it, all. — Beth Bachmann, from “Oasis”

artist: unknown

Muses come and go. Some take root. Some show all their promise up front. With almost no context, I understood what he meant by “reputable entry.” 

Dropping into a new line can feel like that.

We are bodies of evidence, revised. Show me, again, how to leave and return tender inside all this fragmentation. Generate reality out of hoarded information. Find traction at the edges and distill purpose in application as integration.

… :this page is confronting
you. Come on out. Be ready
inside your voice. People have read
too many names. Now, addressing
what was here before, remind them:
in the hollow after you have spoken
a whole world is trying to be right.

They’ll see, those people, how chaotic
a place this is, without us to hold off a reckoning.
Once this poem is over, all the unmanaged
begins to flood in. …

— excerpt from an edited copy of “You’ll See” by William Stafford