the cars going by

the june stars are suffocating while

i lie supine in an almost dark room listening to the street refuse to sleep

 

the mountains are far from here sheltering everyone or everything that i left behind

 

And i lie so still trying to hear a whippoorwill beyond these streets

 

I raise my arms toward the ceiling and the artificial light that seems infinite spreads across my forearms in a way that makes me cry

 

If i imagine hard enough,  my skin is Carter’s Lake on a summer night spreading across the darkness to reflect the moon

 

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by a sea

some are sun people gold,  skin of mamma’s pearl and coconut; they diggin up sand for a castle.

 

seaweed people washed up on a beach too, skin of fishin hooks and broken shells; they ain’t gettin no castle.

 

we are all fools of the tides, always  afraid of what time it is or what is comin for the lives we’ve made; our nude skin shivers at the things that could wash us away

 

but off in the distance, the white waves roll and never stop.

 

 

our balconies when we are still

we do what we can with our little  space, our little time

 

we grow plants in the corner of our little balconies

 

we place windchimes where we can hear them from our beds when the storms come

 

we place the birdfeeders close to the window to bring our unspace closer

 

we notice from our little balconies that the women walking by are pretty and the men are distinguished

 

we smell the bread baking,  the coffee brewing; we partake of this sacrifice of someone’s hands to feed us

 

it forms our little space,  our little  time, to notice the hands,  to drink what is offered; it grants us more

Ain’t is a word

He told me i might should get a liddle learned roun the ol edges may be learn where a few periods go between them sentences maybe let em wring the person i am dry and give all who i am to the rule makers makin the purty poetry rules but i just wanna drank my sweet tea and swang before i die or may be make a few rules of my own; maybe I will learn the proper way to write a poem that doesn’t mean a thing.

to the someone loving me in may

the birds gathered their voices again

because the rain came slamming itself against the winter trees and pushed flowers from the nest

 

 

if not for the robins flitting about my yard i would not have looked high enough to see my name forming around the mouth of the sun again this spring

 

 

it is its last day,  this month of May,  and all of the gifts she has poured onto my head these forty years roll into a crown around my temples

 

 

the green carpet has stretched out before me another spring and my feet are bare in the grass like when i was a little girl chasing grasshoppers

 

 

if i never see another human again

i will still know someone is loving  me out there in the month of May