Yellow Tomatoes

 

I once thought I could know anything

 

The death knowledge of the Buddha

The clarifying call of Gabriel

Former lives and abetting suns

That enthrall worlds more able than mine

 

I too never doubted my time supply

To be the daughter to the dying father

Who buries without the blow of love regret

 

But my father is dying an excessive death

With a wounded body

That aligns rare moments of life

To the faint efforts of his mind

 

And I do

 

I offer my happy baby’s dance

Ask about our mayor and the bad president

So together

We can wave our related heads with a laugh

 

I bring home the foods he likes to eat

Chocolate sugar-free

A bag of sweet yellow tomatoes

That falls when his good hand forgets to grab

 

And when he insists on phoning my mother

Makes a promise that he won’t speak drink

I dial

 

I do I dance

 

Far from the Buddha knowledge of the giving death

Deaf to the recurring chant of Gabriel

Books by my bed and worlds of grace

That I grasp

But lack the good hand with which to grab

 


 

It’s a great Monday when you wake up and find one of your poems on the homepage of VerseWrights! Click here to learn about the incredible poetry community they’ve created.

 

Baby

You are
A long time
Coming

Now
All time is
Your time

My time is
Yours since
Before

But your
Time is
Not mine

It is yours
I get to
Watch it

Feel how
You are not
In me

But you were
There you
Grew

Into a paw
Of blood
And time

It felt good
To share
To receive

Now I live
To give
You time

 


“Baby,” from my chapbook Reverse Commute, published this week on the front-page of the awesome VerseWrights poetry site.

Gradual Rot

 

Rot is a gradual process. It begins while the fruit is ripe and dangling from the tree. Once it falls, the process is in full, and the fruit must be thrown away or eaten quickly.

 

I have picked mangoes off the ground of warm places because they taste good when they are just about bad. They are also delicious before they become ripe. Mangoes are an exception.

 

But, this is not about exceptions. This is about the gradual process of rot, even while clinging to a tree. Even while young and pleasant, with clean clothes and comfortable heels. Being mindful of the ground does not mean being ready for the fall.

 

So thankful that VerseWrights recently featured my poem “Gradual Rot” on their home page. Thanks!