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Literature Text
he moves his hands like
I do, curling & uncurling his
fists. my father who belongs
to a different time, who raised
his babies on the edge
of the wilderness, taught my brother
how to chop wood, adopted
a half-wild wolf dog that
chases bears. he works
at the sawmill, operates
heavy machinery all day,
builds calluses through layers
of sweat & dirt. & I love
him so much, this man who took me
ice fishing on the frozen lake instead
of to school, taught me
to call to the coyotes at night,
how to fell a tree in the snow. when
I tell these stories, I move
my hands like he does.
I got that from him. a gift.
---
I do, curling & uncurling his
fists. my father who belongs
to a different time, who raised
his babies on the edge
of the wilderness, taught my brother
how to chop wood, adopted
a half-wild wolf dog that
chases bears. he works
at the sawmill, operates
heavy machinery all day,
builds calluses through layers
of sweat & dirt. & I love
him so much, this man who took me
ice fishing on the frozen lake instead
of to school, taught me
to call to the coyotes at night,
how to fell a tree in the snow. when
I tell these stories, I move
my hands like he does.
I got that from him. a gift.
---
Literature
12.15.18
and I almost cried
at the sound
of the storm
picturing
history
listening
searching for cover
craving
delineation
the dark
(from) outside
(from) my arms
(from) the things
that creep in-
to the empty
places
next to me
Literature
NaPoWriMo 2019 07: Rafflesia
They say I’m a beast.
Yearning to stir a storm
above a landscape as jagged
as my own. Burning to stroke
tremors down a breathing valley,
soak my fingers in jars of liquid
gold, when I cannot keep my own lid
primly screwed. They call me an anomaly
when I eschew the Adonis they’ve chiseled
by my bed. I am a heretic when I topple
their stone idols. A radical when I
abandon the sweet-scented cadence
of their language. An animal to
want a mate sans blue-green
plumage. A monster when
I break things.
Literature
A Return
Her hands descend
deep into old pockets,
casting back darkness
from forlorn talismans.
She returns! Always
a surprise inside to witness
her divine whorls reappearing,
her heartbeat, the drum therein, the light!
A judgement and resurrection,
scrolls, bones and veils rattled up
called forward from some grave.
Coins cross eyes and old life breathes new.
This springtime mantle. Oh, yes!
Reclamation! Her former self lifts
those bright, timeless charms
that were and are and will again to be.
Suggested Collections
lover has adopted the squirrel that lives
in the tree outside our front door.
he talks to it & I remember my father's
chipmunks & the stories
he still tells about them. I am grateful
for these men
who change my life every day.
---
in the tree outside our front door.
he talks to it & I remember my father's
chipmunks & the stories
he still tells about them. I am grateful
for these men
who change my life every day.
---
Comments8
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Beautiful! We forget how much love could be in some of this earlier generation of men. You hear so many horror stories--and not enough beautiful ones like this. I would have loved to know your father.