for evelyn.
strawberry jam is being on the farm
at the breakfast table, in this case the supper table to make room for everyone who came by this morning
but not before climbing onto the hard-backed bench to find what she hid while we were still asleep
the cats will congregate at the door stoop
and I’m guessing she saved them something too
she called me on the phone when I left
and I wanted to understand her.
Image courtesy of Mark McBrearty
untitled.
I feel so fucking needy
and that’s the part I can’t keep getting away with
physically here but unable to realize, to breathe fully enough—fuck poetry and fuck trying to be good at it
the words only appear when you are: on the fucking ground, too battered by your god to know left from right
alone beside a cabin, horrified by the possibility that you might just Be This Way Forever
and so lost in the eyes of someone you think sees you that you forget your cup is meant to be full too. Pouring one out for the beggar I used to be.
suntired.
I’ve become suntired all over again
freckles pulsating toward light
and god do I need to find a place
for all my winter coats
I’m loftier than I have been and more in the ground all at once
every
opposite
knee-jerk
thunder-foaming
mind cycle
is forced to pause
and observe the yellowjackets making a home in my doorway
and I act like I haven’t made my home in theirs
Image courtesy of Mark McBrearty