A Believer

My friend tells me that I am a wordsmith, forever troubled by the ineffable, life, death, all that limns the path between,

I conjure the earnestness of her voice, its confidence in my work working,
sensing metaphors at moments bewildering and overwhelming….

I recollect her recollecting of what I said when I said it so gracefully, effortless intimate intricacies of some small thing screaming and shuttering— I am here, in this place, I am this place nameless and tongueless, except in luminescence of voice,

I wrestle with her faith in chicanery, me turning word tricks on white space, like wet muzzled puppy, tongue hanging eagerly, affirmation suspended like acrobat, hide my insecurity, you insist

My confident friend tells me that I am a wordsmith,
I think, but how could she know, how could she know?

Heart screaming what lips, much cautioned with grandmother's hand, muttering teeth poised to take a chunk out of connection, ours....I am no word processor, no typesetter, no linguistic magician, but a stick figure with fingers too pudgy to scribble, demands of our profession,

No longer confident in my professing, this profession, too, leaves me in thick mud clamoring for muse,

ode for words that come between beginning to write what I must and what I feel, mythic ill-fated lovers…fated death, an imagined post-life heaven, paradise promise, to kiss again swallow the words never uttered, ode

Blank page, half written sentence, ghosts daring me in bombastic silence, half-sly grin that bows and breaks in low laugh and silence, again, between the page and I, no subtle dance, no gentle nudge of breath on neck,quickening promise of coming together, later

Wordsmith, she insists and I want to embrace her sincerity, illuminate dark places where intellect don’t shine and darkness thick like black Afro, too much to be conquered

Wordsmithing inappropriate gestures toward a meaning that scholarly praise will never find heaped upon these words,

lynchrope, thick and weighty, this doctorate, there is a crowd, not so secret, waiting open-mouthed, breath suspended my demise, beyond the door

My friend declares that I am a wordsmith,
my worth in words, wanders,wanes--a wordsmith she says--a wordsmith maybe,
no, a wordsmith.

We are metaphors for that which is unseen.

Boxer

no room for all that I wish to store, box and tape, away. Things fight in cramped space/inevitably, a loser slips out before I can clasp my lips like a purse. Spilled syllables in places that expect silence or adequate decorum./ A brave white woman smiles sympathetically before I avert my eyes/ self-flagellate the shame of having too much and too few corners to discipline memories of too much to process/ too stubborn to dissipate graciously. Memory is pugnacious, and I am no Jack Johnson or Ali. There is no four cornered ring refereed and betted upon / no trail of flashing lights and nutty buddy shaped microphones asking, how does it feel losing, again/no bell to signal, break, temporary rest amplified by screaming coach—hit……before he hits….move, move/ no half-closed eye, evidence of well- landed blows, no lip puffed and blood-stained, they faded, discontented, to feet bottoms, calloused and speckled/only shadow tall slightly rounded blackened body, neglectful in corralling syllables strung together eagerly from slipping and sliding into places, unwelcomed, here in this space

Requiem for Armadillo

Fall in Mississippi, armadillos, dead, limn roads

I’ve never seen an armadillo, living, walking on some errand of hunger, some rushed return home.

They must hide in the woods or under the Kudzu patch that walks toward my house.

Bodies, depleted of oils that make armor shimmer like glass in the sun, faded pile of unburied soldiers, their tiny feet like flags wave comically.
Backs too rounded and sloped forbid prostrate posturing,
Steadied by rigor mortis,they lean. Tainted by splotches and bruises, they testify.

Yellowed or flowery pink, their tails ingloriously angled.
No trail of entrails, perhaps the crows or random buzzards, flight attendants, collect and recycle them, if they are not distracted by steady traffic of hurried lives looking for anything, except an armadillo limned road.

Fall in Mississippi, armadillos unapologetically dead, limn roads between Oxford and Memphis.
Leaves will follow soon and they too will have no blues strummed about their sorrow.

I never see Armadillos except on TV nature shows and as stuffed overpriced gifts in airport shops that sell everything except discounted water and clove gum.

Departures

Departures

Every morning I start anew.
I need to remind myself that each day is a chance for yet another departure down this path that others have walked before me.
Every morning I start anew, every evening is an opportunity to reflect on where I have traveled.

Every night I dream of new departures and every morning I start anew.
Every now and then I write because I have too much in my head to remember that I can travel beyond the borders of this box or that box. Maybe some of what I write will engage others who, like me, travel because they are too restless to stand still and too contemplative to wander without reflection and without hope for resurrection.