Seventeen and saddled with impending child.
A mother gives away her son,
but cradles rock until they're found.
From stained-glass purple retrospect,
you wonder why you let
the rules of country clubs
and Elks outside a real forest
tell you how to cross the road.
Tinker toys and every kid
who rides his bike down sidewalks
through your flower beds,
they all become a lump to smooth.
Tears are fog in rearview mirrors,
his crib an empty box of sticks.
Thirty years beyond the grave of that mistake.
The chance that you've been aching for
in sweet erupting lava flow.
Face-to-face with in-betweens.
Catching up with living down.
You stay up half the night again;
I'm awake to follow you,
packing washcloths full of ice.
I feel intrusive writing this;
emotion's incest has its way.
I need to be a friend to grief.
I hear its beat through
stethoscopes of syllables;
that metal button cold and hard
moves around a human breast.
Adano's bell of suffering
in a capella artistry.
A fathom bench of sinking slats
and wicker wish to understand,
not simplify the jagged edges
tearing growing fingernails.
Brushing all the tender spots,
I prickle senses, make you cry.
Past has passed. It's nearly April.
Cornbread sunlight bakes cold clouds.
Sitcom answers, microphoning chatter shows.
I let you spin and roll around --
bobbins winding up to sew
a perfect quilt of possibles.
Hawks that circle red remains
of road kill on a country road,
I feel like a daytime soap
without an opera's majesty.