Poetry

I thought I was lucky

impervious but salt eats

away at everything        eventually and

the sandstone bluffs collapse and

twenty-nine is a landslide after heavy

rain

            a total loss the cliff

can’t rebuild but it can erode

into something

new like the sand

I am breaking

away from the rock

I was cut from

A battalion is born

from former police officers,

wear a chevron

take the patch and medallion.

Training ahead

blood, sweat, and loss,

shame, I’m in a warm bed.

the lamp is my new favorite

it’s brass

and the whole thing gets hot when it’s been on awhile

and the lights bend and move

and it’s perfect next to the pull out bed by the fireplace

and it reminds me of the ones

in my grandparents’ house in hendersonville

where squirrels come to the porch for walnuts

where sometimes, reading in the green chair,

you can see a black bear roaming

where my sister and I used to sprint

without abandon down the golf course hill

in our swim suits while the sprinklers ran

back when catching fireflies in jars

and looking for frogs with flashlights after dark

was enough

I found one that still had a tail, once

not a tadpole, but not fully a frog

caught between one thing

and the other.

Wooden bow, arrows, and gun,

the knife is near a belt.

Once, our childhood was full of fun.

We ran through the fields

with village neighbors

taking a sword, a painted shield,

without adult worries and labor.

Time has passed,

harsh life befell our fate,

Russian missiles strike

the heart, a cherished pain

I hate.

didn’t let him see her

looks well — settled in well

not seeing her — not agitated

only communicating with staff he likes

doesn’t like other residents therefore few activities

some men’s activities

looked well

eating, not depressed

———

busy marking this week

Church bells beat my alarm to my ears

And there ain’t no going back down

In the fridge there is a carton of orange juice and a can of beer

a gander at the calendar confirms Busch is today’s breakfast

snatch a flannel from the floor 

Pull up some breeches from the hamper

A hat’s thrown on my head

And I’m out the door

I take the long way around town to avoid the Methodists

I cut through an alley taking precautions against the Baptists

I pass the Episcopalian church

I ain’t too sure if there are any of em’ in there

By the time I’m down yonder approaching the porch

I’m damn well sure I’m making a mistake

I sit behind the rusted john-boat and smoke a cigarette to clear my head

I splash on cologne from my shirt pocket to hide the stench

I walk into the house to be greeted by a creaky floor

The memory of the smell of pot roast is the only thing that feels welcoming

I take my seat at the table

As the ghosts begin to talk

They ask me about what I know

That new job and so on

I clean my plate 

Hug my mama

Daddy tells me he’s proud of me

If he ever meant it

I hit the sidewalk

The good ole boys pass by in their truck

I light up my second.