Poetry

            The weatherman said we were going to get a good seven or eight inches of snow, but as I sit here and write, all we have is rain. I guess rain can set the pace better than snow, though, as it taps on the window, in beat with my fingers tapping on the keyboard, my pads connecting with the clear silicon cover I put on last August. My keyboard covers never last long. I’m not sure if I want to type quickly, or if I just hope that getting my thoughts out fast enough will make this pandemic and this phase pass by with less ache.

It wasn’t like this the last time.

How silly am I?

He felt betrayed, and there I was, with my rain jacket on. It wasn’t rainy, but I wanted to be ready for anything.

I knew, I could visualize it. Him walking away from me, the stiffness of his shoulders, his head bowed in anger and frustration. He felt betrayed, and there I was, with my rain jacket on. 

It wasn’t rainy, but I wanted to be ready for anything.

“There is no springtime on Venus, nor 

any other season—no seasons in hell!”

- Allan Treiman
 

Who named Venus the planet 

of love? Yes, it’s bright, blinding 

as lust’s hot passion. Year round 

the forecast reads a balmy 870 

degrees, blistering enough to melt 

metal—lead, bismuth—not us, 

though (human bodies yearn, burn 

in an untold heat). But Pluto’s spring 

is a lukewarm love like no other: frozen 

atmosphere stops falling out of sky 

(I have no idea if the purple flowers I saw were actually heal-alls but I am always itching for good omens) 

I sometimes look out at birds and wish I was them. And mountains

Oh, the mountains, 

Sending tears down their slopes 

            rippling and shaking 

You’re halfway there

The overlook is worth it

Mud-lined and alive 

Breathing

Smooth rock beneath slick shoes, slipping 

Beds of Heal-Alls, purple and singing, lining that 

            path of earth 

I Try Not to Consider the Lilies

I try not to consider the lilies

or think of how they are arrayed

because I know that they are greater

than any earthly king.

Because when I do consider the lilies

I toil and spin in ways I’m not supposed to

Because I can’t want them and

I’m not allowed to have the others

so I burn in the fields as I’m asked

so that I don’t ask any more questions.

And you ask me not to be anxious

I have trapped myself in a maze by often saying, “I can only write sad poetry.” However, it rings as true to me as the sound of silverware being tapped against a wine glass. Negative words will flow out of my brain, into my fingers, and onto my Google Doc — I just know it, before I even write. Still, it’s comforting to be able to rely on something, even if it’s negative, even if it’s sad. I may get stuck in a sad-poetry maze, but I find freedom there, too, in the homey, familiar space I’ve come to expect.

I dream that a dinosaur walks 

into a museum and doesn’t know 

it’s him in the middle of the display. 

As I tell him, his razortooth-lined jaw 

drops in dismay. It’s a mistake,

he roars, a jewel tear rolling

down his face. I take his stubby claw 

and explain there’s not much to work with, 

dreaming up dinos. All we have is bones. 

Troubled, he replies: But dinosaurs 

had fat. Meat that jiggled

when we ran. Body parts

spilling from scaly skin

or leisurely caving in. 

i slipped

and fell

down.

again

i slipped

and fell

down.

off the 

                        deep end.                                 floating in a dark haze.

s

 i

  n

    k

      i

       n

         g.

waiting…

waiting… 

thinking.

when would the fog lift?

when would it be clear again?

how did i get here?

where am i going?

Truthfully and begrudgingly, this season, the existential swamp that is 2020, has brought about more questions than I care to count. Who of us hasn’t looked into the mirror and asked: am I doing any of this right? What will be my life’s greatest work? Am I doing it right now? (Just me?)

Here is my rebel yell: Blue Jay. I hope you will yell with me.

The first time I saw my Dad cry

We were standing in a raspberry field.

My fingers were covered in crimson juice, 

fresh and sweet and slightly sticky.

That morning the TV wouldn’t stop repeating

Pictures of smoke, planes flying into the towers.

At the time I did not pay much attention to the news,

But I wanted nothing more than to make my Dad smile.

I proudly showed him the carton, fruit overflowing. 

That night we made raspberry shortcake. 

The first time I got my period