Timberwolf

Poetry is hard work these days. It takes intention, motivation, sometimes brute force. Yesterday, I made myself take pen to paper and came up with three pieces. For the first, I took a pickaxe and several licorice sticks of dynamite into the cave of the past six months to blow out debris and rearrange the excavation. Surprisingly, the rubble included ducks and a blowtorch.

The second poem started as a little burst of interest, a subject that had never inspired me before: fungus. You can tell I put more thought into it than feeling, making the intentional decision not to include any reference to a human being—something that marks 95% of my work.

The last poem included here is the opposite: all feeling. I Googled yesterday’s word of the day, wrote it at the top of the page as a title, and opened the Conowingo Dam, which seems to have recently relocated to my rib cage.

Also, I am very out of practice sharing my poetry, and I have the uncomfortable pinching that comes with vulnerability or exercise. If my life is a box of crayons, I’ve been using Timberwolf a bit too often; that accessible grey that goes with everything and offers no surprises. I want life to feel the way a good apple pie tastes—warm, sweet, earthy, always tempting me to another bite, another bite, another bite. Like something that takes effort, that you can marvel at, that becomes more appetizing, desired, gorgeous after it has baked in the heat. Something people gather to share, take pictures of, crave.

There is a chill in the air and all of my windows are open. Come in. (That’s a metaphor.)

Instinct

Taking a walk by the ruddy shoreline of the bay
the tide leaking out through some invisible drain,
we stood by to watch a gathering of waterfowl
their comical orange feet conquering the exposed bedrocks

he asks how I can tell the sexes apart, having never learned
how exuberantly masculine nature is, how animalistic
a woman can be, camouflaged
shamefully absorbed into her surroundings

the mallards with their emerald faces
the calico ruffle of the females

he looks toward me with plain eyes
so different from your gaze
those irises the color of a blowtorch
that drew me from my marsh grass cover
where I fell in love with your wingspan
the shape of your feet, the carry of your voice
across the lake face of a large, still room.

Growth

The wave-crest ruffle of a fungus
frills across the face of a boulder
offset with pines, ferns
and the choppy mulch
particular to the East Coast
causing me to glance back over my shoulder
as I pass on my way
as though I had spotted something
persuasive, gorgeous
a golden-headed turtle, perhaps
or a cardinal’s flashy sanguine body
a piece of rose quartz, that invaluable mineral
the commerce of my childhood.

Lagniappe

I was Switzerland between your escapades
brunette, brunette, brunette
kept close, closed
prayed over your paws
justified your huge hunger, hungry alone

These days I am very wise
which I had no idea
felt so much like fear