bucket of husks

in the dream tyler lifts the plastic
cab cap (semi-truck sized) up onto
the pickup truck rack
efforting but succeeding
roadside

in another dream mom
takes all the paintings she made/gifted me
down from my walls and sets them out
with the trash in a stubborn
you-can’t-have-it-anymore move
accompanied by a refusal to talk to me
and a leaving in a huff
and i have a feeling it has something to do
with the kid in the rooms
whose walls are now bare
(the kid who never appears in the dream
but whose presence is present
meaning i am a parent)
later we (mom and i) bump carts
in the grocery store and maybe
there is some softness there
it is also slightly wintry
and an r.v. is involved
_______

wooden serving bowl stacked with
pancakey sweetness (joseph-made)
plate-covered on butcher block
complemented by a dollop of
apricot jam
_______

scuffle-hoeing sparse carrots
in south garden beds dry as dust
the sheen of sweat on baigz’s face
the crumple overwhelm and exhuastion
in trish’s posture

_______

you are showing up she says
you are right where you need to be
you are putting the work in
now put that scorpion tail/tale away
_______

peeling papery sheaths from
all roundnesses/sizes and shades
(ranging from eggplant-purple to green
to yellow-white) of 5-gallon-bucketfulls
of tomatillos and arranging them
on butcher block in rows according to size
the kind of art installation i can get behind
_______

trish and baigz spidering in the hammock
peeling papery layers (that pile on bellies)
from shiny-smooth garlic cloves
you peel i peel we peel i sing-say
dumping a bucket of
husks (tomatillo) into compost pile
_______

two tablespoons of oil laird says
medium-high heat
similar sizes at once
sizzling to yellowness and squishy
cast iron by cast iron this
is how we roast batches of tomatillow
_______

mica in hammock-swing over dinner
imitating (with face and voice) the
hum-buzz-whine of our most
unfavorite window-vicinity dweller
the bush katydid
reminds me of a car alarm i respond
_______

sky hazed by west coast on fire
sun an orangepink orb
still slung high an hour or so
before horizoning
_______

up and down: being sparkly and making
jokes and
crying into my dinner i say

more stable and i’m getting my nightdreams back

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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