our lungs at work

i’m holding the gem of us
and the work/idea/plan/hope
is to keep my eye on its gleam
cutting through all the other noise
banging to get in i say leaning
on forearms on butcher block

we laugh about the thought of
(welcome to) fist city knuckle tatts
as honna pits some damson plums and i
scrape cucumber seeds from flesh
fist city as in knuckle sandwich
fist city as the shape one can take
curled up inside another


manila folder of writing workshop magic
word scraps spilling out aflutter
in ceiling fan circulations
on couch cushion between
honna and i as we write
into our lap-perched notebooks
somewhere i was taught
that land doesn’t migrate
only its creatures do
movement- swift as a river re-routing
slow as the bones we are made of
giving themselves back to soil
i began at the water’s edge
which is always shifting
meaning the exact point can’t be pinned
same as where we were
when we first dreamt us
and by us i mean
where you first dreamt you
and i first dreamt me and
each of us first dreamt we
there is a picture of our pairs of feet
in zig-zaggy patterned socks and two-tone boots
at the edge of the rolling rio grande
same edge now submerged under the rise of
summer’s excessive stormings
the shape of theĀ  lake i was born next to
is not the same shape it was
39 years ago
not the same shape it was last week
i write


new information i say
in the back seat to mica
it takes a while to sink in
and we segue into a round of
when i was young
i was the sun
shining through the trees
onto the ground
when i was young
i was a mountain….

and now for something completely different i joke
about taking the back way
to dancing rabbit which
looks not completely different at all
than the front way

little collisions of kale and i
in path of the frisbee
our faces red our lungs
at work

honna, mica, emory and i
howling whoah-oh we’re halfway there
oh-oh! livin on a prayer
out sedan windows as we roll
up gravel drive
living room karaoke we
pass the mic around the couches
in our costumery opening with
livin on a prayer and closing with
stand by me/blue moon
and middled with tyler
singing achy breaky heart
(tell your brother Cliff whose fist can tell my lip
He never really liked me anyway)
and that cheeseburger song

trish’s skirt-as-disco ball
casting sequin shines onto ceiling
off honna’s mini projector shining
lyrics onto thumbtacked sheet

the magic of a microphone we joke
about having one at all times
calling out across the kitchen circle
or out in the potato fields you! love you!
like a standup comedian

talking to the
half-empty din
nina singing into a half-carved spoon mic
following up with an apple-powered
guten nacht