Sanctuary

For Portland State University

blue light:

emergency,

the pole says,

in case the need

to climb

out of a situation —

reminds me of

nyc on the a-train

three a.m:

I’m not a victim of

the world I see

to drown out

the fear smell —

there are blooms

still on Lincoln Hall’s

bushes, the cold nights

not a threat yet —

good thing I don’t

own a gun I might

misunderstand

like the time I thought

you said want —

two gargoyles sit

like guards above

the study room door:

who do they keep

out? out of my right eye

a man’s zebra

sneakers walk easy,

walk in not

needing the blue

light, knowing the blue

light is there

if a hunter comes.

This poem was requested for inclusion in the anthology. It was first published online in Thimble Literary Magazine

https://www.thimblelitmag.com/2018/12/10/how-a-mother/

Plague

For almost a year, we bode caution. Washed our hands as if we ate a dozen Old Bay-seasoned crabs then needed to change the baby. We hoarded distance. On the subway, a little girl licks the steel railing like it was ice cream. Doesn’t look appetizing to me, but then I have forgotten how to be a child, I guess, as I watch the little girl’s tongue cover all 2 ½ feet of the thing. Later, a man grabs the railing, helping himself to rise. He hugs his friend, a ‘long-time, no-see’ hug. Have I forgotten how to be spontaneous, to freely give, unexpecting? I don’t notice him sneeze on the railing. Rising out of the dark underground engrossed by our glorious sun after such a long rain, I touch my face.

The Apple Tree

The men carried flames on sticks; I remember how they made the stars disappear.

How they made the tree look strange against a dead sky.

*

Mama said she’s too young.

She needs to know what’s what, Daddy said. She needs to know their place.

I was five, I think it was, when they caught me kissing the boy who lived in the shack on the field. On his cheek, his left cheek, I remember because he had a scar on his right one and wouldn’t let it be touched. Said it reminded him of the heat of a sun not from the sky.

She needs to see what trees are for, Daddy said.

I’m not a baby anymore, Mama, I wanted to say, but felt like I wanted to still be one then. Just for another hour, maybe. Just for the rest of that day.

Daddy dragged my arm almost off of me.

My shoes made skid marks, I remember, because one of them looked like that scar: like skin being pinched and pulled apart at the same time.

*

I wasn’t allowed to say his name but I’ll tell you. Harold. They gave him Harold.

He had another name none of them could say. Or wouldn’t.

I could say it. Because he taught me.

He gave me a name, one that sounded like his real one. We would cup our little hands around each other’s ears and feel our names. Like a summoning of anything bigger than we were.

*

The men carried flames on sticks; I remember how they made the stars disappear.

How they made the tree look strange against a dead sky.

How the sky felt mean.

How the faces of the men smelled meaner.

How their hateful breath fenced us in.

Harold’s feet made skid marks too.

Our eyes connected how twigs make a nest.

We saw each other’s eyes want something else as they lifted him to the tree.

We mouthed our secret names over and over.

We mouthed our names like drums asking the gods why.

We mouthed our names like drums begging the gods help.

His eyes went home to his Mama, to the place of his real name.

I swallowed his secret name over and over and over.

Window Dressing

Winded from my morning run

I stop to check my pulse at a storefront

A salad bowl frames my face: what a rousing appetizer I would make

Candlesticks for legs: these hips would surely light some fire

The momentary fog on the window erases my face

The blankness: a new page for a record of something

to be forgotten

I could make a gown from those curtains, like Scarlet did

Descend that staircase for my close-up with Mr. DeMille

But that dress would mean no more snacks and

JoanCrawfordComeFuckMePumps would surely break my ankles

I want to be barely-there, like a bas-relief

But the planets I read have something else in mind:

the kind of wind the days bring

Betcha in that gown I could hitch a ride

in an egg carton, maybe for a song,

maybe

fly me to the Moon

How to be an Asshole

You butt in every Monday morning in the same coffee shop in the same barista’s line just as your subordinate is about to order. You make a joke about raises and you are the only person laughing. You wink at the barista like she’s in on it; you can’t see disgust coming at you like a pie in a face at a carnival. You tell her Mikey here’ll get it as you slap him on the left shoulder, hard, like you were slamming a door, the same place every time; you wouldn’t notice a bruise there if his shirt was off. You stick your foot out in front of his just as he steps up to order. You gag laughing, not enough to choke yourself to death as Mike silently wishes you would. You turn to leave, see your new boss at the end of the line. She does not smile at you when you blow her a kiss. She looks through you. You tell your imaginary friend: what a bitch! You steamroll out the door yelling Get outta my way, everybody is always in my way! You do not see the crowd salute you: the chorus of middle fingers raised high in your name.

Memento Mori

Kat-with-the-Tats

they called me,

one for each death,

interwoven with wefts of nature-vines

pink-budded, long and vital—

weeping willows for my sister,

Pompas grass for my parents,

dew dripping from a field of short grasses

for gone friends. Just last week,

the field widened.

I have chosen a picture of me

bungee jumping —body suspended over a river.

Today, I will get it drummed

into in the center of my chest.

She will fly alone over those grasses

donned in red pants peppered with white polka dots

crisp white shirt, purple collar and cuffs

ankles tied together in a rope of nicknames her mates bestowed

feet pointed like a ballerina

arms outstretched like a swan’s neck

aimed head-first toward that green, green field.

The Passenger

I don’t speak French but I recognize some words. In the rearview mirror of the Aston Martin he bought her for their wedding gift, I see her eyes blink too much when she says mother and sighs. He nods in agreement a lot. Or is he being kind? He says understand five times before she stops smiling. His voice hushes as if he were apologizing, but I don’t know the French words for ‘what I really mean to say’. She blank-stares out the window straight ahead. We pass six mile-markers in silence. Fine, she says in English, it is settled. Her left hand on the steering wheel, her right hand assures him with a pat. He says something about rain and eat. I am hungry too, and hungry to be asked a question: ‘how are you doing back there, son’ or ‘are you warm enough’. I want to ask how far we have to go, to remind them I am here.