a barnacle/a marriage
a ring: circle shell signals sibilant
track of wave across water, shushes tide slapping
side of shallow-bottom boats asleep at anchor
amid docks’ dense knots of watercraft—cling
through sun and storm for centuries—more
(who needs a heart? the truth is in the holding)
pity human ties frailer than this dense grip
that bonds you to rock and lull of fiberglass hull,
link severed only by meticulous scrape and
slice, sent back to the spray that bore you—
stinging knife of separation.
Ephemera
Luna moths live seven days
from first expansion of grass-green appendage
first breath of fleeting vitality
til wings still for the final time.
This is the way of all wild things—
fight fuck fade.
However stubbornly she
persists, resists, every mermaid
washes up eventually, shell bra
left to weather in the punishing sunshine,
dulled scales ripening to rot
in oppressive heat.
The enormity of mortality
stretches endlessly wide
like an Appalachian ridgeline
peppering all our horizons
with an end to possibility
a separation from our beloved
what-ifs and could-have-beens
a step toward the terrific unknown—
our only remaining decision,
the grace of our transition.
Lamentation (Consolation)
All the good poems are taken.
(Not so, sweet girl.)
I mean, what do poets even write now?
(What they’ve always written. What they must.
The words that burn too much to hold within.)
“Stopping by Cookout on a Snowy Evening”?
“Ode on a Spilled Sippy Cup”?
(Yes, yes! Start there. Start now.)
More often than not, the Muse
finds herself too exhausted
to sing,
(Aren’t we all? Sound your jagged notes anyway.)
too overwhelmed
by the odyssey of errands to pen
an epic narrative of contemporary
womanhood.
(Just stop for a moment. Invite the overwhelm,
offer the page your tears, your time, your rage
and frustration. Offer it all.)
Most days Inspiration
turns up her nose at the cheap, bitter
grounds lingering in the Keurig,
(Fuck Inspiration. She’s a stuffy bitch anyway.)
eyes the basement writing desk covered
over by children’s toys and clutter,
(Those–write about those!)
declines to stick around for coffee.
(Listen, honey: hurl her mug against the wall,
watch the dregs drip down the baseboards—
write the poems lying in its pieces.)
