breaking gold

reading judith d. schwartz’s book
water in plain sight she talks about
antonio nobre’s notion of green oceans
which is what he calls

stretches of dense extensive forest
whose moisture, enormity, and ongoing
exchange with air and wind
mirrors that of its blue marine twin

and she also goes on to say that
the root system of a mature tree can retain 
tens of thousands of gallons of rainwater
_______
we laugh less
without you here i write simona

or maybe it is the reality of
living under the rule of a xenophobic, racist, anti-feminist zealot
beginning to sink in or maybe
a combination of both
i write simona

who has landed back in the drear
of new york city
_______
what is the smallest sound amy asks
the upright pencil brigade
from her post in tucson
_______

two precisely appropriate questions
posted on friend’s pages
about living under/in this new regime:
what do we do?
what even is this world?
which are exactly my sentiments

because the doing feels better
than the being innundated
with all the traumatic news
coming out of washington
which is now run by a selfish,
rude, kazillionaire who also happens
to be a perpetrator of sexual assault
_______
the sun breaking gold
through cloud and casting
its coppery light on everything
east of it
_______
the comfort of the sound
of the zippers/buttons 
being tossed and spun across the hall
in the barrel of the dryer
_______
the plate of nachos and small
glasses of red wine and 
tub of guacamole that jan and lois
invite me to join them around
11something pm
_______

electrolytes lois says
as i slowly make my way
sipping all the clear cool water
from the hot pink nalgene
_______

lots of lead in bullets and other heavy metals
jan says about decommissioning weapons

and how bioremediation is one tool
that is being used and this is yet
another moment i can’t help but be
incredulous –
the guns and weapons are assault/insult enough,
but then, their toxifying the land… 
_______
and then there’s the image from today’s news
of fresh nazi SS graffiti on a wall dedicated to Polish officers
and on polish gravestones
at the Bykovnia Memorial Cemetery, near Kyiv, Ukraine
that turns my stomach
and steels my fists,
red drool of paint over lists and lists of names
and this is where it gets personal:
the nazi soldiers killed my great grandmother
and my grandmother watched it happen,
my grandmother wheeled a cart with her mother’s body in it
searching for help
from a church or a doctor
(and there is so much more trauma
to add to this list
which turned my grandma into half-there
which fucked with my mom
and there is not a day i don’t carry that trauma in my gut
as if i was there
as great grandma bled out)
and the red drool of paint
is a punch in my already-tender gut
that says we wish they would have killed your grandma too
(even though they already kindof did)

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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