Dante, daunting

Dangerous, revolting
Aristide thrifts his way through the circles
my body a channel through the underworld
a portal through purgatory
His words with my thoughts mix as though mud
Between the toes of his people, the souls of our people
roll, capsize, pepper the night sky with their stories untold
Lead him, fighting, home and then home again
It’s 100 degrees today but nothing’s caught fire just yet
Though you are an island surrounded by lava,
Though for miles on top of minutes we can see the
Ashes stacked on top of each other—
The salt of the Earth.

Communion

Wind shudders stillness
releases all her energy
with a final gasp
creating silence in a way that reminds me of rain.
I stand, slowly, move my hands upward toward the trees
and pray among the leaves

Soft wind breath rises again, tickling my ear
whispering sweet nothings
breathing life once again

Blood pours through vein to organ and back again—
a poor lost soul swimming in a fishbowl
life’s sweet libation,
the sugared sound of nectar
flowing from cup
to glass
to mouth
The calm, reverent motion
of ceasing to exist
of ritual at dusk
of life coming to an end as it enters another

What was lost is now found again,
as suddenly as it stopped. Air exits my lungs
pays homage to my throat and
says hello to my lips
before it departs,
forever from me,
and joins the leaves
the trees
the wind.

where I'm from

Dress-up in hand-me-downs
pink lipstick on and around
mouth, cheek pressed
splish splash, glass and water
are related just as I am to mermaids and princesses
the heroines of our time
Bones fragile,
fingers dirty or
in the process, but not related
to spiritual cleanliness, religion
the opiate of our time
And merry, marry
Mary had a little lamb
whose fleece is blond and eyes
are blue, but not as blue as
mine, for what's mine is mine
not yours or ours and no, I will not
share or show and tell or tattle tale
I'll braid and dance and pretend
we're friends as long as you let me
be the Pink Ranger,
stranger danger
the legs I've wrapped my arms around
aren't mom's, at least not my mom's
but maybe someone else's, in some
other time in another world, in another
book about planets,
stars and moons
with the help of dad I'll pick and choose
words to tell the story about the cat
who, while the cow jumped,
ran away with the spoon.

weapon of choice

It's hard to justify,
rectify
Respect
a father who uses
not his hands to abuse
but his words
whose hairy, hardly fit
habitually hateful
"hold on just one second
I'm not through with you"
type approach to parenting
favors him
9 times out of 10
a man who sports a
handlebar moustache
a-typical patriot
eagle-on-flag tattoo
and a "blame game" attitude
that's defensive at best
but mostly plays defense for his
ego
and teaches his children
not how to read but
how to make excuses
(it's not my fault I can't read
I've got ADD,
I can't help that I can't get a job
I've got a GED
an STD and
a flat foot)
The "can't just a book
by its cover" philosophy doesn't work
this time, for this book
tells the story you'd expect
three times divorced, truck driving
trailer trashed on bud light beers
and one son who grew out of juvie
and into jail--
we'll not mention his name but to say
see you in 2 to 4, maybe
and no earlier for good behavior
because you take after your dad--
and another son, a kid really
with a baby his own
slinging burgers to make minimum wage
to support his young family of three
and a temper inherited from
his father, father
of a daughter who has already
at fifteen
been caught shop lifting and
painting on eyeliner thick enough
to trick older boys into liking her
taking advantage of her
and lying about her age.
But hey, maybe these kids won't
perpetuate
the system, fall victim
to circumstance,
follow their father's size twelve
footsteps down the alter,
back to prison,
jail or the baby ward
even though
everything we've seen of them
thus far
tells us yes,
they will.