Sherman's Footsteps

a white porch swing, a gentle june breeze, and railing shadows like prison bars. ladies with their umbrellas up to protect their perfect skin, arms gripped by gentlemen, strolling past the necktie trees.

days stretching into spun out nights, growing into the glorious devotion that is supper. a glassy-eyed deer with holes in its heart provided by daddy dearest, blessed and devoured with silver forks, blood patted away with mama's finest linen.

retire to the silk sheets made by hands unknown, teeth brushed with tea, so sweet it stings. eyes closed; don't listen to the cicadas scream. a flag outside, frozen in time, waves with our pride, and i waver in mine.

[un]Controlled Burn

Is a fire truly able to be controlled?

Embers may slow

winds will blow

but power is not in one’s hands-

which sizzle and crack at a single touch to the source.

If the sudden shift from flicker to fire

on it’s own will depends,

Could not the same be said for losing friends?

Souls bind to one another as do books.

Two get placed in an old library

full of splendors and woes

Only a small building;

but the entire world it looks

Hours are spent whispering in all familiar corners.

Every story is learned

they despise each other’s foes.

Singular words weave into shared paragraphs,

as their co-written novel grows.

When time goes on less attention may be paid

Age does not guarantee strength.

Pages yellow and fade,

letters droop until nearly indistinguishable

Making already fragile connections blur.

Wear and tear is vulnerable

small cuts will rip apart with little might.

In this moment the sneaky fire barges in:

One slight fight

and a single spark sets the whole thing alight

Harsh words fan the flames

every little staple

all strokes of glue

Are forgotten as they melt away.

Fire reaches every shelf

dancing without a care in its mind

grabbing anything it can hug its scolding arms around.

Now the victims can no longer visit the place once called home

For the ashes still sit

On the spot they were left alone.

Resolution is not found in that moment

If pain is normal;

Why not own it?

I Try to Remember

Lying knee deep in a moss-green bed

I wake up and I am teen-aged.

The river rolls by

renaming my fear of goodbyes.

30 bucks in my pocket says

I can make it to college.

In the meantime,

I sing from musical memory

in simple rhythmic ripples

only to remain chest high

in the sun-deep sea.

I stay here because I choose to.

I try to remember little-girl landscapes:

when I’d listen to lovers laughing

in the shade of the cypress trees,

watching tree limbs shake their leaves,

standing silent and still

beside Burnt Mill Creek,

black butterflies dancing in summer heat,

my father pushing hair off my face,

both of us ink-drawing with salt-sweat

dripping off our sunburned cheeks

onto ink-sketched paper.

In between sketch pads,

my father reads Lorca,

speaking in our first language-

the language of his father’s father.

We speak Spanish under Spanish moss.

We are in this frame together,

bonded by blood.

I try to remember.