Farewell

Insomnia, guilt, and a conversation I had today are the inspiration for this post. Why can’t I sleep when certain thoughts creep into my brain? More importantly, why can’t I let things, people, or “friends” go?

It’s all about the brownies. If you had one day inadvertently come across this recipe as I did, you would understand. The scrumptious perfection of these brownies, modified by my specification of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate chips and dutch process cocoa, make every morsel a delectable experience. When I first started making them, it was an occasional treat, a decadence the whole family could enjoy. But I was quick to discover that they don’t last, that from-scratch bakery items must be enjoyed to their fullest almost immediately after emerging from the oven, or all sense of richness is lost. And so I brought a few to work. The reaction was astounding, and people began to ask about them. I brought in a few more. Soon I was making weekly batches of brownies and bringing the entire 9×13 pan into work, cutting them up, bagging them individually, and setting aside corners for certain colleagues and the coveted “center cuts” for a special few.

So as I lay in bed just now, thinking about the F-bomb and my purposeful use of it under imperative circumstances when the whole FUCKING world ought to agree it is necessary, I started adding up the ingredients of my weekly brownie list. Fifteen brownies a week, four eggs, two sticks of butter, a bag of chocolate chips, one and a quarter cup of cocoa, a tablespoon of premium vanilla, one and a quarter cup of flour, two cups of sugar, one teaspoon of baking soda, fifteen sandwich baggies. What does it add up to? $10 a week, $40 a month, 10 months in a school year, $400 a year.

Now let’s talk about my coworkers, who have two incomes and car payments and student loans and childcare expenses and every other FUCKING excuse in the world to NOT have any money. And me, family of five, ONE income, NO debt (other than a mortgage), who rides my ass up thirteen miles of hills with those heavy ass brownies ON MY BICYCLE and specifically sets aside the best cuts for the BEST people, and I am spending $400 a year so that if I USE THE WORD FUCK ON FACEBOOK I GET DE-FRIENDED??

That’s it. Farewell to the fucking brownie list.

Door to Shore

she’s shoeless behind me
and he carries a load
worth a thousand pounds in gold
we coast down to the beach
(four miles from door to shore)
pedal harder home in summer rain
that tickles our backs
as thunder threatens our ears

this is the Vittetoe Express
missing a link along the line
broken into bright patches of light
as three girls, two chairs, two floaties,
one giant Camelbak,
and the love of my life
carry us home

Bloodletting

it has seeped out overnight
the words lie flat in mountain noon sun
hidden behind pale shadows
unable to fight back the bright

you say to him what i say to mine
i can feel the oozing out of veins
as the peaks disappear in the rearview mirror
skyscrapers nestling us into our nest

i will be weaker now as in those past pale moments
your secrecy lost upon me
but lighter too with the capillary release
of tiny heart drops draining to the ground

Serpent

a black snake making its way
curvacious and thick,
scales glistening in early morning,
ropelike muscles ride its back,
snaking our way
slither by slither
amidst shiny pops of dashing-past eyes,
past the ponderosa pines
into thin air above treeline

it snaps its rattle
one last switchback bite,
a venomous sting near the clouds,
but we bite back
bask in the surreptitious sun
that mocks the wind
and begin again,
rattle on top
spiky teeth taking us down
until once again
we have conquered the serpent.

Words on Paper

you say it isn’t valuable
and i find words that are so powerful
they could climb up a mountain
but they are lost on you
your media-induced culture
so engulfed in desire
that not for a moment could you
understand the sweat and tears
put in to real work
the real work of words on paper

we will move on
and i will remember your post
the ridiculousness of it
the way i cursed you for its haste
and you will remember
four years of debt and nothing to show
nothing but who you are inside
how you see the world in a new light
the people who have changed your life
and all the words, words, words
that have allowed you to be
who you are going to be.

Pyramid

someone’s on the top tier
calling commands to those below
just like slaves beneath the Pharoah
we are trapped under the heavy weight
of imperialism

Enter title here

enter title here
gray words on a blue sky day
she crawls into my lap
between three margaritas
fifteen bicycle miles
and half the cottonwood-covered zoo

a boy would never do that

he informs us
letting us know how lucky we are
we are
we are
with three little-getting-bigger-every-day
girls
girls
girls

she is absent but we fill in her space
with life stories as twisted as the branches
on the half-dying ash
(the one holding the tire swing)
and the fajitas pop in our mouths
with songs of spicy Mexico
and we remember
(forget in the same moment)
how we came together
how so easily we could come apart
how we remember
how we forget

Glass

a hill that even
the toddler tries to roll down
mother tangled in dizziness
surrounded by trees
thickest oak in eastern Kentucky
(takes three of us
to wrap our arms around it)
a forest
as real as it gets
with disc golf mountain bike trails
a muddy creek
and “looks like glass” waterfall
log from one side to the other
yes
in the middle
of
the
city
houses lining the park
with Bermuda grass beauty
sister brother-in-law niece
and i think
why isn’t this my home?

Cultural Show

for you
it is the word
the life
the soul

for me
an annual cultural show
actors shifting, shouting
trying to convince me

you thank me
beg me to return
perhaps i will

but no season tickets for me
no standing ovations, bravos
for words that are lost
among the shouts, the anger,
the heavy weight of guilt
for a life i love too much.

Quilt

with chunks of chicken
sticker books and melting chocolate
crinkly bags of beef jerky
mini pencils strewn like petals
crumbs in every crack
we make our way along the border

its golden sphere beckons us to stop.
we can’t go inside but see the perfect playground,
the grass soft as our new carpet,
the two-story fountain filled with children
who hear it erupt and rush
like carnivorous hawks toward fresh prey,
and i forget
(for all of ten minutes)
that i am not one of them,
but the parent
now soaked from head to toe,
dress sticking to my legs
as my three little girls
weave me in and out of spurts
in our quilt of childhood joy,
sewing up the perfect end
to a dogged day’s drive.