siberian squill

unaware of the state of emergency up above

purple flowers poke their heads through the sodden prairie soil 

just because

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Doubts, they swing open
a door
into a room
with no
walls. They are never
entertaining.

I fall asleep knowing I have
failed my parents.

I write poetry.

In the morning, truth still
matters. So does the sun. I think of
a title: "A Hard Rock To Swallow".

The phone rings. It's you.

A door shuts.

The main difference between a poet and a madman is













.

Lasso

Twist rope into a jaw
(large enough to swallow
the calf whole, horns first).
Hemp tail limp in your left hand.

Wrist bones knitted into a honda knot,
pulse with each precise turn.
Your arm the axel, lariat the kicking wheel
of an overturned cart.

Hoop of rope level, steadily catching
lip of wind, whip-whistling,
lashing like an aspen’s arm.

You throw a hawk.
Watch it soar, snatch its prey,
squeeze.

Walking the dog

What a day--surprised a crane in a sudden clearcut
takeoff fast, not a speck ungainly.
Vole-holes and inhale juniper,
brand new long-haired dog, happy
the way only dogs can be happy with their noses buried in underbrush following the breeze
into the trees, like birdwatchers, novice spring
forest-walkers, tempted so often off path.
Ticks in the upholstery for weeks.
Tail thumping as we tweezed them each.
Happier than me running
fingers through my hair.
But no parasites go to dog heaven.
Scatter her ashes in the boreal forest,
off mossed and faint path,
tuck our pants into our socks,
and wag our tails.

The Impossibility of Fireflies

She wants to believe
in the impossibility of fireflies,
their existence a rumour
perpetuated by friends from the East
and their poetry and songs.

Briefly, she confuses them with bees
and their ridiculous honey, then remembers.

Syrup, she’s been told, comes from trees,
but she’s sucked the sap off palms
after days spent amongst pine and sagebrush
and wonders why the world
continues to lie to her. She concludes
it may as well come from fireflies
or their cousins, the fairies.

She know roads have been diverted
to appease the elves. She can’t think
of anything that could appease her.

Breath

Our baby's breath is small and white, and it smells like milk.
I used to lie, senses open, in the path
of your heavy sleep, watching your giant mouth hang slightly open,
your girlish lashes flutter tinily. Your breath
smelled of beer and Mexican food,
your skin like chiles and sweat.
It was hot. We were broke.

Her breath is sedative, a hot toddy.
It might as well sound like warm rain, the kind I wake to wondering
why did I sleep in? Because the rain is still resting its grey sleep down.
A rare mid morning, and on her face, your ample mouth puckers.
Your eyelashes on her eyes. Twitch-crack--and

up.

June says

Hurry up and plant, hurry up and grow.
Fitsbew, bzeee, your time is now.
June itches to go swimming, go barefoot, go.
Gorges on strawberries and cherries—
hatches fruit flies inside the house.
June wobbles its bike in the tennis courts,
sports t-shirts and shorts, lakeside girls
flipping front to back like toast.
June has a heady nose: larkspur, peony,
and rose, the night air freshly laundered, warm
enough to sleep with windows open.
June swells with pea pods
and days fat as beach balls.
June brings the frenzy before the lull,
each rounded letter a cup about to overflow.

Secret Ops

The big ugly on the news
flies past my head—

no cell in my brain cares
about far-flung death
or wants to be reminded
of so much hate
hidden in bunkers
plotting new deaths
in the name of holy hates.

I am powerless.

Tonight when I scan
my wits for any link
to strong protection
do I spot the Navy Seals pin
left one night years ago
when my high school lover
visited this small house
shook my husband’s hand

hugged me with his steel arms
and left before dawn,
the pin on my side table.

In a writer’s desk clutter lies
my golden link to one man passing by,
my human history still caring,
checking to find me safe

calling the situation
all clear, in good hands.

Bound

Height my constant companion, Cheng to my Eng. It is my wife, my work, my home. The one familiar in these stuffy cities, so alien and greasy with privilege, where coins slide too easily out of pockets and into frippery, petty entertainments. (How can the hulk of a man be worth a whole dime? Papa had to work for one until his legs quavered, jaw too weary to chew his skimpy supper. I make my living on God’s back.)

This body my glory and shame. Cross and salvation.

I could lop off my foot at the instep and never squeeze into a standard shoe, never take a staircase without turning sideways. Grind down my shoulders and I’d still clip both door jambs.

But, even days I dream of being skinned of my burden like a buffalo, I lean on it with the full beast of my weight. Savour the luscious odyssey made by a slow swallow of whiskey down and down my long throat.

First ride

Each day thinking soon, soon

as snow recedes from pavement,

water slips down storm drains

thinking of chrome fenders flashing sun

the comfort of a padded seat, a bell,

a taillight blinking. The hairpin turn

by Omand's Creek, the bridge,

the birdsong trail. Rush of air

past bare arms, magic of gear ratios,

power of these less-than-muscular

legs, my slow flight beneath arching elms.

That will come later. The first ride

is scarf and gloves, cold seat, cold ears.

Mere minutes till thighs grow stiff,

slightest incline becomes a hill,

and thoughts turn to how far

I should venture before

I can say that's enough

for now.

Myhead

soround sofull sowide soflat contains mybrain mysoul myeyes mynose myears mymouth
so fat: mythoughts
gotsmacked sohard myhead sawspots and onlyholes wherewords oncelived where
language

breathed

nowcavities

gape

theback of myhead above thenape of myneck. can'tcheck. can'tsee. a mystery to wake upstaring at thesky calling "anyonethere" existentially

myname begins andstarts with"A" ithink aboutthat nightandday.(AmnesiaAphrodesia. WhoAmIandWhatAmIDoingHere) AnnoyingAndAwesome AllAlone, annoyingawesome or awesomelyannoying: Ithink ofwords
thatI coulduse to
legitimize
my personalviews, theway iam theway iwas theway iwrite atnight
because

i'mscared wheni wakeup i'llbe somethingmuchless thanonce wasme.
smacking
yourhead isclose to obscene,only beat bymeetinga
guillotine/CUT

Table graces

Mornings while we dress

water bubbles in the kettle,

news and weather murmur

from the kitchen radio.

Reading and prayers, each

of us in turn, and finally

Come dear Lord

and be our guest. Then

corn flakes with milk, one small glass

of juice, toast with gooseberry jam.

Or bran flakes in the bowl,

rhubarb jam on the toast.

We come home at noon to brown buns

with salami, a little lettuce, maybe cheese.

Canned fruit and cookies after.

It's Come dear Lord quickly mumbled, then

a reatreat into separate worlds:

the Old West, the Future, Middle Earth.

For supper, a steaming casserole,

dill pickles, bread and butter.

Dessert every night. We're fond of sweets.

But first: and let this food

tu use be blessed Amen. We joke,

argue, fall silent. We remark on

the state of the world.

We pass the milk.

Desecration

for D.M.

You buy your anger by the carton,
light the tip and watch it smolder. You're
still here, what's one day less from a doubtful
future. Not all grow older. Smoke
rises

at the trial of your sister's
death at a stranger's
hand. Your mother's
cry in the courtroom when they read the charges
to the bland-faced
man.

"Indignation to a body",
adjourning to
your mother's
scream.

You flick
the Bic,
inhale tobacco.

Exhale:
dirt
dead leaves

charred
flesh

Daleen.

Homebound

On a sick day with enough sun
to keep tears locked in the sky

the squishy ground sinks
with each rain soaked step,

like nose wet marks
heading home to dry,

stepping through patch
after patch of emerging colors.

Dozens of poppies vibrate
in the silver fuzzy patch
just past the blue iris clumps—

jade tongues frame
the violet tinge in each
humble bowing bloom.

I long to pass through the glass
storm door and gather
an armload of May to carry inside—

but the sky is too big
the clouds too close
too much all of it

and even the knowing robin
makes her nest outside my window
in an abandoned strawberry pot

so I may watch the purest clutch of
four blue eggs sit like petals
of an amazing flower

until life cracks appear
and allow me to bear witness

in my fragility
to the unfolding of tiny wings

gifts to carry my limits away
into the open bigger blue above.

Shrinking

The world shrinks. A little every day, as if brick buildings, steel railway cars, wither in the sun. Rooms everywhere close in; walls slowly march toward one another, ceilings cede to gravity. How long before I’m suffocated?

An eating apple becomes a crab in the bowl of my palm. A ladle a teaspoon. Woman’s face a cameo.

Children lost to me now. Though their thin voices sometimes tiptoe, reach up, grab at my chin. Trees have shed all authority, all majesty. Like a father, the first time he cries before his son. At age nine, I outgrew his hand-me-downs.

14th and Woodlawn

the park with crows calling
is still there, though
that time is done and it is
light out now.

you are still the same lost boy
and I am still hiding
between the door and the wall
behind blue velveteen robes
that smell like dust and coffee.

they invite me up again
into the same black branches
where the view is all feathers
flapping downy down and rain,
yellow moss, bark, bird legs and claws.

Housekeeping

Hey May Day poets! PLEASE tag your posts with your name! (And preferably only your name!) So I don't have to waste valuable May Day time tagging them for you!

Delusional Parasitosis

Doubt covers the skin.
And yet not doubt, yet as sure as spring.
A new creepiness: one, two, three
thousand little doubts and frustrations crept up
from the past, and descended finally in a Biblical deluge.
An innocent box of matzoh, seal broken, a conduit
for decades of unscratched itches.
One plague, two plagues, three plagues times the number of fingers, etc.
But the worst plague of all descends alone, on only one,
the worst plague is invisible and improbable,
tingling skin static humming: ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore.

4 mai

hola mayo!

bonjour mai!

hello mon beau!

o

o

o

je suis ici (hallu hallo I'm calling down to you, from the top of your rabbit hole)

et je t'attends

patiently patiently

o mon beau, mon beau, mi amigo (guapo guapo in your deserts, you are quite frankly, delicious)

the plum blossoms are opening

they are fragrant as Shiraz,

they are the colour of Persian carpets

yellow finches balance like drunkards

in my fruit trees

o mon amour, mon amour

this winter you kissed and kissed me

in my kitchen, whispered,

this love will take great patience,

then went out, took the axe, cut and stacked

my winter's wood (it kept me warm)

I cried

when you drove away

o may, o mai, o mayo, o may

my love come swiftly

o may you, my love,

come swiftly,

o mai, mon amour

come swiftly

like white homing doves

swiftly, swiftly,

to me

May Poem #1

Eating vanilla yogurt, 10pm,
straight out
of the container, standing
at the counter
with the company
of the half curved off
cresent moon

tin-foil lid, facing me.
The road sounds
like an ocean, each car a wave
crash, I suck yogurt foam
off the spoon, another dip,
another thing pulled in
by the moon.

-Kaitlyn Boulding