These poems are rooted in the natural world—woods, water, and sky. The places we pass through and return to.
Eye In the Sky
white-whisked clouds
circle the sun,
their bellies burned
pink.
like an eye,
rubbed raw
scratched
by dirty fingers.
I speed toward it,
never gaining.
watching it stare,
unblinking.
I stare back.
the day won’t end.
my mind won’t quiet.
the eye hangs low,
amused,
burning daylight
into clouds.
I run a red—
annoyed.
it keeps its distance.
neutral
to night
and day.
from the south
a sky bleeding
ebony and granite.
blows hard with wind.
the eye closes.
with no sun to burn
the rain away,
it falls.
gravel pops.
brakes scream.
the engine dies.
only the tapping
of rain
on glass.
then my reflection
in the rearview—
looking back.
no blinking.
Ignition
The morning sky burns
crimson;
yet the frigid ground
rebels.
From the driver’s seat the
world shakes;
a ridge of ice and slush,
courtesy of a city plow
I twist the key
and pray the rusty Ford
delivers.
The engine coughs,
then lets loose a metallic
howl.
The gritty feel
of grinding gears
beneath a salt-stained boot.
From the console, a bottle
of Motrin rattles;
nearly empty again.
And yet, our engines grind,
ragged breaths merging.
Within the wind-whipped
pines
the robins struggle,
blunting their beaks
against the frozen ground.
They bleed,
but endure.
Cloud Cover
beneath tightly packed rows
of rippling gray.
i was swept to the horizon.
leaving pieces of me
carelessly strewn about
the supple earth.
i traced the seams
with glazing eyes,
while the turkey vultures circled.
i found a loose thread
and pulling, the final pull
climbed through.
on my face,
a familiar warmth.
a soft chime in my ears.
a bittersweetness in my nostrils.
a numbness in my toes.
i stood anchored,
in the burning fog,
swaddled in radiant
light
i let my head sag;
my eyelids fall;
and remained.
Her Signature
Silken strands like steel converge–
winding, weaving, zigging, zagging.
Spinnerets stitching the air,
sealing the world.
Beyond the rippling curtain,
another awakes.
At the center,
the Yellow Queen shudders.
Eight spindles twitch,
sporting shiny black stilettos.
Eight-beaded eyes flash,
demanding fealty.
Her bustled abdomen poised,
Guarding the seam.
Mud Rain
Bivouacked on the Indiana border.
Skipping wiper blades blur the Rest Area’s sign
bent over by the wind
until broken.
Dead oak limbs leap,
splattering acorns across the dog run.
I’m walking his dog. He can’t.
Further South to Michigan City,
cracked sidewalks and crumbling mortar.
Rotting black powder on the shelves.
“Welcome to Illinois”
where the adult superstores bloom
near the giant cross
and all roads lead to Cracker Barrel.
Outside Champaign,
the Phillips 66 station is melting.
We keep the kids in the van.
I wish I had a joint.
Someone here does.
Accents grow thicker as the miles stack,
but we avoid the subject,
watching the storms
begin through the windshield
and end in the rearview.
Across the bridge,
over the Ohio
the beams and cables
are rusting
while
Kentucky weeps
muddy tears.