Poem I wrote this morning:

Poetic justice, natural consequence;
Call it what you will.
Maybe hubris or Icarus
Flying towards the sun.
Some say he got his just desserts,
Which makes me think of Klingons
(Revenge is a dish best served cold)
I suppose he did 'just get served.'
And Golly, it does seem so cold
How we have turned away to gloat.
Oh, call it what you will!
I don't care; All I know is,
The President tested positive for COVID today;
And I don't know what to say.

Five

 "Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs."

Every month the moon performs a strip tease,
unveiling herself, vulnerable and shaking
embarrassed, she slips the night sky over
her shoulder to hide.
as do I.

The Iris' violent violet petals, unfurl
ribboned arms, curling up to heavens and
down to hell, bending apart from
her yellow powder heart.
as do I.

In summers, there's an insect who sheds
a crunchy shell clawed onto willow bark, is it
growing like a snake does or completely changed
like a butterfly? or does it both?
as do I.

My layers peel back, like cuticle skin
picked till bleeding, revealing below,
I break character, forgot my line, and
one turns away from the fragility.
as do I.

In crowded spaces, there is always
a child crying among the collective roar,
pitch sharp and cutting, one wonders
how the others so easily ignore.
as do I.

hi fears.

Do you pity me as a child,
homely, dirty-faced orphan
open palmed, Oliver-style?

Do you loathe me as brat,
spoiled debutante,
consumed into my sadness?

another year of life

Spinning,
I feel new moon, old moon
dying, dying, dead.

oof! there it went.

Hark the Harold! anxiety sings
recused to silence, deafeningly mad,
traveling blindly through my skin job
circuit overload, overlord, oh my lord
I didn't know what a lie it's been.

O Holy Night!

death belay

The day my mom died,
my life stopped being my own.
Each movement, breath, nuance
of my being
is her doing.

Two years now
it is still hers.
My house is built on her foundation
and it is her windows that I open
and her air that my lungs breathe and
her purse I tuck my money into.
Her hands type these words.
I swear my eyes cry her tears.

Suddenly and violently,
my life was not my own, but
just a continuation of hers;
as it always has been,
since my birth.
It was in her death;
I knew it.

my how things change

This weekend the dog pissed on the yoga mat,
which sprawled before the litter box
in my vain attempts to trap paw trailings.
I threw that mat out.
It is almost like, five years ago
that yoga mat wasn't a gift from you and
it was not wrapped below the Christmas tree
not some meager poor husband gift offering
and almost, just almost,
I thought about feeling a smidge guilty
now that I can easily buy new mats
every other day if I want and
I threw that one out
with it's shit and decay.