go. everything will get better
atop the coffee table.
write by the light of mid-evening jade
where the fireplace has become
an altar,
which sits beneath the painting
that my dad professed
he wanted to give whoever painted it
a medal. it was because he thought
it was the ugliest painting
in the world.
it is of a tree leaning forward
a little like a headless, bosomless
woman, with two green armless figures
resting beneath it. they look like
jello jigglers. not everyone
believes. it's okay
to let it go.
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moments when you can learn to fly.
wham bam thank you fam.
Blog Archive
these days.
knitting these days / together
with the click
of aluminum needles
illuminated by late night
television--David Letterman,
Night Court, the news--nothing
new to my lola, who'd hardly look up
from the scarf or hat spilling out
of her hands.
tucked in next to her in the bed,
the rhythm of her hands keeping
a steady tick click tick of knitting,
i'd watch the figures on our snowy
television, thinking
if my parents only knew how late
lola let us stay up.
these days i knit / late
in the night, can't stand
television.
i want to know /my hands
are connected
to the same scarf the same
hat that spilled forth from
my lola's hands.
i want to create / the same
warmth of snuggling under
a blanket with her, the same
memory that i can wrap around
my shoulders like the last time
i embraced her
her calling out my niece's name
who was the same age then that i was
living with my lola growing up
maybe i should / teach
my niece the same rhythm
the same tick click tick
the same pintig
of these hands.
with the click
of aluminum needles
illuminated by late night
television--David Letterman,
Night Court, the news--nothing
new to my lola, who'd hardly look up
from the scarf or hat spilling out
of her hands.
tucked in next to her in the bed,
the rhythm of her hands keeping
a steady tick click tick of knitting,
i'd watch the figures on our snowy
television, thinking
if my parents only knew how late
lola let us stay up.
these days i knit / late
in the night, can't stand
television.
i want to know /my hands
are connected
to the same scarf the same
hat that spilled forth from
my lola's hands.
i want to create / the same
warmth of snuggling under
a blanket with her, the same
memory that i can wrap around
my shoulders like the last time
i embraced her
her calling out my niece's name
who was the same age then that i was
living with my lola growing up
maybe i should / teach
my niece the same rhythm
the same tick click tick
the same pintig
of these hands.
moments when you can learn to fly.
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