Today I freed a black-eyed Susan
from a vine.
The slight tendril twisted about
the flower’s stalk, bending the plant
in a long, dreary arch toward the ground.
It is a small thing, to set a flower free.
In the great cycle of a forest’s growth
and decay, I do not know if it matters.
I do know this black-eyed Susan
now feels the sun on its face
instead of its back,
it no longer hovers over
brown leaf litter but
bobs under the blue of the sky.
And for this moment, my
breath comes easy.
Photo by: Minami Okamoto
This tree of my heart:
Her leaves are like
heavy green pears,
her body a congregation
of mayflowers.
Last summer I would
climb through my window
onto the roof
and eat my lunch next to her.
I did not appreciate her then.
I had not spent a winter with her,
watching the thin tangle of branches
bending under tiny walls of snow.
I had not seen her pregnancy,
the small buds tipping the limbs,
growing round and full
under torrents of rain.
Now she is more than cool shade,
more than my cat’s ladder.
She is the woman who lives next to me,
the mother of many green children.
Image by Jeremy Mann
I have made mistakes.
I have misplaced my keys.
In a moment of wild abandon,
I have misappropriated the rent money.
I have misattributed
a smart thought to myself
and mishandled important conversations.
I have missed the bus, and twice, my plane.
I have misaligned my loyalties
and the decimal in my checkbook.
I have mis-stepped and landed on my face ~
literally and figuratively.
Yet, -mis, you miscreant,
Upon one event
your language misconstrues:
I did not miscarry my baby.
In loving memory of Iva LaRue
As the Israelites traveled through the desert wilderness, the presence of God was manifest in a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Exodus 13:22
In the summer of 1982
God sat at a card table,
poodles at her ankles,
cocked cigarette in hand,
setting her nine cards
in vast array.
The summer of '82
was slow and hot and humid,
and we traveled through
the days card by card,
pacing ourselves by
trumpeted proclamations
Let’s Make a Deal!
Wheeeeeel ooofff Fortune!
and the whispers of
Luke and Laura.
When the news ended,
when the last card played,
when the air was thick and stale,
and we were tired of each other,
I trudged away, smelling of smoke,
and entered my
quiet house. If anyone
was there, they knew
I had been with God.
Every morning, I’d return,
crossing the wasteland,
my house to God’s,
to sit before the altar
of three channels
and eat toast to
the happy banter of others
Good Morning, America.
The incense of tobacco,
bright and fragrant,
rose into the crisp
morning air, air
cleansed by the
light of the moon.
Sometimes God thundered
about daughters-in-law.
Sometimes God quaked
about the silent phone line,
the boys who seldom called.
Sometimes God wept
for the sins of the family,
and sometimes God spoke
in a still small voice,
It’s going to be ok, honey
Oh baby, I’m so very sorry
An ember by night,
the Cloud of Presence by day,
In the wandering wilderness
of that season,
God Was.
It snowed steadily all night, and the morning
has dawned bright and brilliant and blue.
Everything angular and known is softened or buried,
Familiar pathways have vanished under an expanse
that extends to the edges of my horizon.
To this strange and beautiful place I bring
the only thing I have, the only thing I’ll ever have:
Hope and wonder and the warmth of my being.
Bringing you into the world
was a half-cocked plan,
born of accident and bravado.
Of one thing I was certain:
I would be better than my parents.
My smart resolve soon fell away
into the ruts of their well-worn path.
From the Box Store of Beliefs,
I bought a large suitcase.
Around scratchy clothes and
tight shoes, I arranged for you
all the useless nothings
Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.
I watched that unwieldy valise
bounce against your new knees.
I knew this was best for you
because Important Things are Heavy
and keeping a grip on Big Truths
takes tenacity and brute strength.
As the years went by,
The pillars of what I thought
I knew, what I thought was true,
Toppled.
I remembered
The dream of another way,
Of the path that says:
It is never too late to let go
of the Warping Weight.
It is not too late
For us
to slide that clunker
out the rear car door
into a backwash ditch.
Now, I’m buying you a big bandana
and a stick.
I’m packing you a bundle
Of deodorant and daring
and creativity and chapstick
and sriracha and compassion
and fuzzy socks and
the salve of let.it.go and
the balm of how.it.could.be.
I will watch you set off,
A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.
Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.
Art by Jim Oskineegish
The nights of heat lightning
and mornings of languid water have passed.
The sun has shifted and the
yodels and tremolos of the loons
have subsided into hoots that simply ask:
“Where are you?”
Under the slackened gaze of a clear sky,
the mountains shake green velvet robes
from their shoulders, robes that fall
like golden halos at their feet.
From this unadorned landscape,
chasms and cracks emerge.
In this new season, in this new naked light,
I touch your jagged edges
and rest my head against the hollow
that holds your heart.
I discover the shadow of your smile,
the subtle slant that tempers pain with joy;
I seek the places where you hide,
the truth you shield with lies;
I trace my hand along the ridges
where rocks break into slides.
Here. It is here that I find you.
Image by: The Galek Sea
In the sleeply upsun
I listen for your hustlegrind
and await the sockstep
stairslide back to me.
I reach for the
presspalm heatseep
and we recline,
shoulderhip: shoulderhip,
as the slipdown bitterblack
nudges us into morning.
Amidst curtainbreeze sunslant,
we twistlimb and dayfloat,
my hands drawing through
your deepthirstywaters.
In the bay, people are walking their dogs
on water and pretending it’s ice.
I’m new here, but I’m not blind.
Eager dog paws and bright boots kick up water
as they slosh further from shore.
Their excursions unnerve me. I wonder
what ancient heat, what fanning winds
have driven them to this mad adventure.
I will admit,
the sun has drawn close,
intense and bright,
and I feel
slightly intoxicated,
and even, a bit ornery. Still.
I haven’t forgotten the definition of foolhardy, or just plain dumb.
Maybe I’m just a cautious old dog,
puppy love once, but long ago.
I lean forward to watch the show.
I wonder how they know, these tethered companions,
When it’s time to stop walking?
When is the day they walk to the edge, and turn back?
Or maybe they don’t. Maybe here
they keep venturing out
onto melting ice, hoping for the best.
Maybe here they ignore
thin ice warnings
from the news and their
friends. Maybe they even
ignore the snapping
under their own feet.
Maybe, one more walk
on a brilliant day is
worth the plunge,
worth the flailing
through icy water to emerge,
half-dead, onto the shore.
I lean my body back
into the smooth curve
of the bench, and zip my coat
up over my chest, and
settle on the verge
of maybe Spring.
Chali Davis 