petals pirouetting

cheering and waving
from the rocking chair
with price tag attached as
trish and emory
pedal up to meet me

when questioned if i
crunch down or slurp up
the last bits of ice cream
(in this case, a free, normally 60-cent cone)
at the grid bottom of the cone
on the rocking chairs outside zims
i explain my technique
of pressing the ice cream down
into the cone with my tongue
then demonstrate
the only two black folks i think
living in rutledge
regarding the racist statues
on front porch steps
of a house we bike past
later i joke about
under cover of night
painting them white
semi honks on the
county highway distance
normally i wouldn’t pull over
this time i do
stand aside straddling bike
to discover on grass
the unmarred body
(minus a missing antennae)
of a painted lady butterfly


pheasant i think at first but
everything else about this bird
lifting from creek-side of road
up into tree
says hawk
how i stop to watch
trying to catch a glimpse of this
limb-resting creature whom
the internet tells me might be a
red-shouldered hawk
pink peach blossom petals
pirouetting to ground gusted by
incoming storm winds
that surf the crest of a cold front
backdrop: steely gray sky

how baigels notices stripes
in the hail that he, mica, trish and i
lean over to pick up
and put in our mouths
just after we run a rescue mission
transporting starts
into the greenhouse
to avoid tiny food plant damage

singin here comes the sun again
if you’re going to stay
show some mercy
mica singing in
karma living room
thunder moved into the distance
sounds of ripping (fabric)
as she waves her rag rug in
variations of blue

pre-gillian welch sing-along
sorta sing along while we
finish our chili and corn bread
in the post-storm cooled air
one more dollar and i’m
going home

i’ll set her free i say
she’s more creature than human
and you know how i feel
about creatures in cages
holding mica’s hand while
staring down
the row of spider plants
looking down at us
from the loft

she tells me of the
four immeasurables
gifted to her in yoga class
i ask if they have names

these lines from brian gilmore’s poem
(for d.j. renegade, ta-nehisi coates, darrell stover from landover, and the prison writers, lorton reformatory)

in my inbox reminding me
why poems are necessary:

pens must move like

slice through layers of

challenge headlines
handed down through

1 something a.m.
buzz/squeal of fly
stuck to web at the bottom of
the end table as small spider
appears to impale the fly in its abdomen
over and over


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s