Last Us-ie

In this photo

this us-ie

my face echoes

your shapes

curved long chin

blue bent-almond eyes

the hair, oh the hair

our armor

curled and long and hiding

crow’s feet.

Since then, your hair

has thinned

to tufts across your skull

you refuse to trim

long strands still flowing

down your back

thin trickle of pride

vestige of what once was

you tuck

into your wig

the one your daughter

wore in her casket

before we tugged it off

to touch the velvet

of her head one last time.

Mom, let me run

my palm

over your stubborn

wispy crown

this new wisdom

the you of you, the way

my ears gulp stories

you repeat over and over

before they too

fall away from you.

Grease

I couldn’t recall the name

of the yellowbreasted

blackwinged

orangeheaded bird

surprisingly still lingering

in mid July

Northern… Flicker… no

wide beak…which species…

and now

Western Tanager, just now

my brain, that hunk

of flesh

brought your name back to me

like suet to an empty basket

my attention

having pecked at leftover

grease for two days

Poets and Minstrels Radio features Walking the Burn

My brilliant friend Barbara Ford is not only a gifted poet but also a poetry DJ on our local radio station, KHEN 106.9. I was honored to join her on July 10th to take turns reading poems from my new book on her show Poets and Minstrels. Enjoy, friends.

Fish Fry

Before I found her curled

like a giant muscular leaf

the old goldfish—flat orange

scales the size of fingernails

no longer a shifting glow

in the murky depth—

lay eggs in the lily pot

submerged like a watery nest

still, hovering, I feared, near death.

The huge male Shubunkin, orange and black

spotted, lay there too over the pot

and worry tested the water

chemistry, perfectly fine.

Faith in science unshaken

I went about my terrestrial days

until the morning I found their fry

funny name for a hatch

of tiny goldfish, more like mosquito larvae

or sea monkeys than fish

already flown the lily pot in open water.

I photographed them like a new grandmother.

Joy quickly rotted by next day’s discovery

their mother newly dead-eyed

stiff, already putting off a cloud

of particles, her babes

swimming there in the fog

filtering her death through tiny gills.

Next morning, already wary

of their father flicking angrily around

the pond like a prowling shark

looking for his mate, desperately alone

and hungry, they retreated to the roots

of aquatic lettuces, lacy floating foliage

of water celery drifting around

island planters, a forest in which

to hide, slowly outgrow, the size

of their father’s mouth.

because Hildegard, 20, outlived their childhood

every Tuesday morning

or every other

sifting through her

kitty litter

still my children’s mother

(never quite a cat lover)

Flying United

Scrolling United’s movie and tv offerings

Nickel Boys, Moana, Wicked, Girls will be Girls, SNL

in the middle seat, I decide against saucier options—

Jonathan Van Ness’ Fun and Slutty, their coy smile

glowing over bare shoulders and sequin gown—

because I don’t know my neighbors, don’t want

to ruffle the window woman, hard faced, possibly

MAGA. Napping. No flight fistfight today, thanks.

I go for something innocent, unthreatening—

Moana 2—which for all I know might set her off

on an inner tirade against brown people taking over

children’s media. Uniting islands. Edgy after all. Fine.

So be it. The aisle woman reaches into her bag

pulls out a colorful hardback book and a journal

covered in Frida Kahlo, child faced, hovering

over a rib cage. I know instantly I love her

this woman, who, it turns out, was once a journalist

a teacher of journalism, who is reading a book

full of essays and writing prompts compiled

by Suleika, Jon Batiste’s wife, whom I adore.

Brief teaching/writing histories shared

I sit here scribbling beside her, new sister

gift from the universe’s good graces

Dorell might attribute to my recent time on the cushion

after a year hiatus from sitting practice. As though

resting myself open, letting go of my busy story

the story starts writing love into itself, effortless.

My new friend sits beside me. We whisper, lean in

love conspirators, mourn our country’s waning humanity

cuts to the arts, attacks on journalism and anyone

not straight and white, kidnappings, denial of due process

slashing health care, climate protection and rights.

We take hope in finding each other, talking our ears off,

as men would say, sharing our work in this world:

her support of immigrant families’ needs and literacy

my teaching children how to make art and grow food—

our school greenhouse dome partner to Woody’s guitar

ironically inscribed with a pacifist’s threat:

This Machine Kills Fascists. When the window woman

finally wakes, who knows how much she has overheard.

In a cigarette-ravaged voice she says she is going

on a cruise to Alaska with friends, which somehow

confirms my worst suspicion, and explains the husband

of her friend’s son arranged the whole thing.

It would seem nothing is ever as it seems.

Looking out the window on her first Seattle descent,

she observes, “There’s so much water.” Yes, yes,

we agree. The Salish Sea. But that is another story.

for Jeanne Jones Manzer

above a storm

audiobook in my ears:

the clouds just below me

flight attendant’s voice:

the clouds below the clouds below me, draped over peaks

a kar a me mantra:

the vapor layer below that voice

my hope:

the plane’s shadow below the mantra, tiny on a blanket of clouds,

enlarging as we descend through grey mist

White Fragility: or, Why Jackhammers Can’t Get the Job Done

A year after initial installation, the Black Lives Matter mural was repainted

on the same street now repaved in fiberglass reinforced forever-concrete,

built to last, withstand centuries of traffic. Scholars called it performative. 

Five years later, onlookers in long lines carried it off with both hands in heavy chunks,

the valuable ones emblazoned with yellow paint, this one part of a T,

this one from the upper humped back of the B. Podcasters agree: not performative. 

Witnessing woke workers of the city carry off the pieces to their queen—Liberty,

quietly filling the earth with her brood—white deconstruction workers stashed chunks

in their MAGA stickered trucks, too, tickled to see that divisive message go.

After listening to This American Life’s episode Museum of Now

The Art Teacher Turns Greenhouse Teacher, or Why I Wake at 3 AM

I have dreamed of children’s stained-glass problems—

thick leaden seams, faint hatching wilding

into cross hatching, lopsided pinch pots thinning

and shy blending, afraid to saturate the page

with wide range and bold contrast

I have lost sleep on how to help them

find wisdom in the marriage

of their untried hands and sharp eyes

as though my life and their happiness

depends on the coordination of the senses

Now I dream of soil depth

and seeds, how to teach children

the art of pouring jewels of creation

into their sweaty palms, pinch

and release them into tiny trenches

and think metaphorically

of where to place them—plant companions,

mutual protectors—boldly thin crowded spouts

as if room to grow, green meals, more seeds

will absolutely save them

wind is trying

wind is trying

to touch everything

today, even me

in this light

drenched house

sliding open

low windows