Taking my turn in the back seat
starting out.
Wondering how to pass four hours and 26 minutes.
Two-hundred-fifty-nine miles,
a Bleed-Blue Kentucky Wildcat cutting through the Buckeye State on Route 62
en route to Cleveland.

A basket stocked with snacks on the seat to my left;
a box of Triscuits and a can of sharp cheddar cheese,
chocolate chip cookies, a cup of Oreo Minis
and a bag of pretzel sticks.
I’m not hungry, though.
Fine. Pretzels.

Mindless munching,
landscape gazing
past corn fields.
Will the crop be knee-high
by the Fourth of July?
Rows and rows.

Slowing down
driving through town
passing a strip mall:
Subway, Verizon, Hibbett,
Petland, Walmart, McDonald’s
The Razor’s Edge Full Service Salon.

Thirty-five miles per hour, now,
passing small ranch houses
with well-manicured lawns
Ohio State fan flags flapping
Purple roofs and green shutters.

Cleveland is so far away.

Her last breath
a symphony,
ten thousand blazing trumpets
and a choir of crickets-
a final fanfare,
or, orchestra of bones,
we know not the colors in which you speak.
Crecendo, crecendo,
when a fleeting life exits this hall,
our prayers will be your melody.
Heads bowed,
eyes shut,
your song will not be forgotten.

Empyrean mind,
how the cadence of your bones
calls lyrical breaths forth
from their sleep.
(Hazy eyes and
cool fingers
smile
      and
           lace
their way through the support beam structure
of a fractured ribcage.
This story is only told so many times.)
           Whisper the days away
                 and lie with another,
                       uncovered,
                           on the bed of bared mentalities.

Eighteen hundred feet.
The distance I’d climbed up Machu Picchu Mountain
over stones made slick by the morning rain.
Three hundred feet.
The distance remaining to the summit.
Limits

Ahead
Ascending the mountain, stone steps
three feet wide.
To the left – a sheer drop.
Above the top step – a misty sky.
To the right – more steps?
Or possibly another sheer drop?
Limits

I clutch the rocks on my right,
inhale deeply and exhale.
I smile.
I bend my knees and turn my body to the left
and sit down on the wet stone.

In a few minutes
I will begin the descent
Without looking back toward the summit.
Without making it to the top,
I have reached my limit.

I’m intelligent

But I have a terrible memory

I’ve thought of so many theories

I’ve had the answers

To all miseries

I’ve discovered the cure to cancer

About 53 times over

But I can’t tell you

The method or formula

It’s because of me

That others must suffer

I’m terribly sorry

My muse was absent
this LexPoMo June,
out riding a four-wheel cart,
driving a pock-marked
sphere toward a distant hole,
sipping cocktails in the clubhouse.
I’d planned to play at poetry,
but my muse was set on golf.

Emaciated sun rises
behind loud trees
highlighting powerful blooms
and one precious bird

In memory of my mother 8/9/48 – 3/11/2007

My brush caught the clasp on your strand of pearls  
In a frozen moment I imagined them               
dropping down the open drain one by one               

But the clasp held and I recalled
that pearls are knotted each by each,
carefully slid down the strand by hand     

Unless the whole necklace is lost, each pearl is safe.
      
I thought of you and the pale nape of your neck 
 your hand pulling up strands
escaping your long and graceful hairline.

Addiction II
I listen carefully to gage what you are covering up
To hear if your words are slurred
Or your outlook too bleak,
Or if you have verged into mania.
I tell myself,
This is the nature of addiction.

I try not to take it personally
as I internalize your depression and misplaced rage.
On your good days I strain towards the normalcy in your voice
Recalling how you once were, and could be again
Imagining all the fun we could have as sisters.
Setting myself up to fall when you crash.
I cover for you to try to spare others the worry.
How many stints in the ICU will it take
“to reach rock bottom?”
I have been encouraged to walk away
but I cannot.
My guilt and my love
and my powerlessness weigh heavy.
This is the nature of addiction.

Twilight: the whippoorwills call,
& the faint sound of Bob White
in the distance.  Like a spark that snaps
from the unseasoned wood piled high
on a summer bonfire, we see it: the first
lightning bug.  How we loved to run
through the weeds, and catch
these pixies in flight that seemed
to move at a snail’s pace.
Soon fields were swarming
with the phosphorescent seraphs.
We’d put them in an old Mason jar,
poke some holes in the lid, & find
the perfect place for them in our bedroom.
Silently, we’d watch the yellow sparkles
illuminate the room as we drifted off
to sleep.  I’m glad we didn’t grow up
in the age of technology.