turning quietly

the thing i said on thursday last week
and am just remembering today:
it’s easier/less complicated for me
to identify as a writer
than as a woman
realizing that on the day we celebrated
sandhills 42nd with song, dance and other
ridiculosities, the detail collector
was turning quietly seven
(happy birthday, babe)
the familiar rhythm/wrestling
of pitchfork and pummies,
shaping paths, making beds
loading and unloading carts of mulch

the deep purple of trish’s teratoma scar
when i ask her to show me
under lifted mint/teal tshirt

sing til the power of the love come down
sing til the power of the love come down
lift up your voice
be not afraid
let us sing til the power of the love come down
cynthia and tyler and i singing as we
make our way through the thick rain
along the back road to the place where
zippers and ice cream and bags of cat/dog food await
squish of mud/clay up past my ankles
in teh rained on/still-being-rained-on
tomato beds of look far garden
there is something to working in this wet
in a semi-waterproof raincoat
and absolutely not waterproof at all leggings and everything else
for as long as possible until the fact of the wet
and sortof cold finally soaks in but still
the tools must be brushed clean and the
cart/wheelbarrow must be ferried back
to their proper places
while i crunch numbers
at the karma living room table
the sound of moonstar persistently
at open windows
on a tour de force
(how i want to exclaim to you,
mica, the success of a reconciling
resulting in zero!)
the puddle of black cat-kitten in my lap
curled into sleep as i write this while
the layers of night frog sounds
drift in a cracked open window


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