Birdie

huge emphatic sighs from beside me;

my body is sore as she pressed hard

against my hip, to live under my skin

submerged full-body

I’ve never been a strong swimmer

treading water

my arms my legs 

always moved too fast at first 

lungs panicking, I fought

to calm breathing I had to count

in 1, 2, 3, 4; out 1, 2, 3, 4

limbs following 

where my mind took them:

it’s been years 

since I was truly ‘in’ water

submerged full-body

aside from sitting in a spa

recently

almost two hours

and my skin never puckered 

body craving the moisture 

“It’s all in my mind, so don’t be unkind…” ~ Love and Rockets 

bug in thuh soup

shit girl, 

ya ain’t nothing

ta no-body

ya ain’t special 

ya ain’t even priority 

fighting’ fuh ya-self

just make ya a 

bug in thuh soup

her eyes were clear and bright

I grew up in a generation

of wear "no all-black" at school 

because it announced a mental state;

but  years prior, we walked 

miles home alone at nine and

arriving to an empty house 

was a parent's concern

always for me

an empty house, 

even when mother didn't work

siblings older

moving out moving on...

when she finally left dad, she left me

from states away he ordered 

things required to live a life

added me to cards and accounts

neither of us thinking 

I existed alone in a house

that once held five

I would finish two years of school

in three, meet a boy, live a life

bury too many too soon

wear all black

there she goes again

fuck me if March isn't approaching

22 years and I still don't understand

how I got there

how I got here

time stopped the year I spent crying

in the shower

doing dishes

in the car driving to work 

I've evolved into a functional human

more or less

some days less

in the deep under

on the wall she walked

heel to toe

balancing arms spread wide

looking out ahead

in the peripheral, a vastness 

swirling 

in the deep under

waiting for the sun of summer

March will mark brother’s passing 

twenty-two years hence 

now it’s Birdie’s gotcha day

one year of sweetness 

April would have been 

sister turning sixty 

if she hadn’t passed at fifty 

now it’s Birdie turning three-years

May would have been 

brother turning fifty-nine

if March hadn’t happened 

now it marks my two-year

leaving 

mulligan please

learning to swim

I sank grasping the sides

in a deep end darkly 

touching forks to sockets

live

in sense searching 

for a sunny space

for all the flowers 

of deep hues hoarded

in the hours

of disassociation

since

wide-eyed and WTF

 denial is

a dog woke

 tool early 

by an alarm

everyone put Baby in a box

without self-labeling 

others will apply their own

predeterminations 

to me, most people are puzzles

little pieces learned 

here and there

to most people, I am X, Y, Z

turning inward

some nights, she presses

neck sore awkward

inertia shifting me aside

toward 

the edge

and I wake

startled 

in near collapse;

other nights I wake

to her gentle curl

the base of my spine

warm, her little nose

lifting 

as I turn inwards

I am what I am

Probably 

Gonna

…fuck some shit up…

getting back to that girl

collecting recipes 

I want to eat 

with my eyes

with rumbling intent 

vibrant and wild 

in technicolor, sepia

and cream, deep reds

of wine reduced 

there was a girl once

curious I have to get back to

she’s not there

too late, waining wet winter

cold got into my bones 

infection got into my lungs

though the latter was not you

the former surely was

and time the only cure

found it there, dusty

found Time 

on the floor 

at the back of a packed closet 

hiding in the dark 

it was there all along 

just where I dreamt it

dragging out the heavy life

two bulky jobs and  

material trappings;

I found it there, dusty 

amidst other things I had set aside 

things to do and see

it was there in the wayback 

behind Survive

in a small lockbox labeled 

Overmorrow

shut the front door

feelings like thoughts 

exist spatially

in a clouded ether 

a bubble hovering 

in the sky past my reach

exactly where I put them 

Birdie Bonita

if I am quiet

cold distant 

on the runnings

of the world 

no care voiced

I don’t feel?

I feel too much!

too long I gave 

my days my nights 

my life; hours

of sleep to others

in the dying light 

let me live

simply existing 

amidst joy,

four paws and wet kisses 

for a moment there I thought I saw something

dry sky-blue cold turns

into wet but warmer 

and everything is damp 

maybe I HAVE lived

tightly on the edge of

a mild depression; 

give me the sun and

heat to sear white

hot flesh to bronze

I will give you 

a cold heart melting

sweetest girl presses into my side curled into a tight balll, sighing in her sleep

the future isn’t promised 

tomorrow may never become today

the world is burning 

“rage, rage into the dying light”

NYE

black ants in the kitchen 

I didn’t go to dinner 

stayed home instead 

wiping down cabinets 

and counters with vinegar 

dropped a bottle 

full of water, cap loose.

mopped the floor 

dropped said bottle

quarter full, cap on tight

on my foot

spent late hours , wee hours

with an inconsolable pup

this is not poetry 

this is life

found her on the bed looking guilty, carrot unscathed

one, two, three 

slices off a carrot 

Her favorite, carrots 

car crashes, lost children 

empty cutting board

split seconds…

climbing walls

I slept askew, akimbo

in a shirt tangled, woke

to a cold nose snuggled in 

to the side of my neck

solidly sleeping after

terror unseen invaded

‘twas a night spent 

climbing walls

in her room, reading

most days, the past is the past

but there are pieces of me

bits that were………..sweet

I try to recall, try to reach past

gray eyes once were green

past bones cold from damp

to recall

other things press through 

Sister passed at fifty, burnt to ash

interred atop Brother who left at thirty …five?

his casket baby-blue: did Daddy choose that?

or his then wife? 

flowers of purple dark and light 

his favorite color, Iris, reminiscent

of when we all dwelt in a single place

I chose through exhaustion 

in our house, the youngest 

was the Forgotten, not the spoiled

the ever Forgiving, the One 

left behind, the One who calls

the One to call, the One

who sits with death and buries bodies

only two more bodies left 

daddy’s and mine

it’s a slow race;

who will live the longest?