What Do You Want to Be?

Your words hooked

like poisoned barbs dipped

in distaste venom:

an author was no profession,

not like a doctor or a lawyer.

A pleaser, I gazed upon other pastures

while stories spewed from me –

a molten lava that could not

be stopped.

I made peace with numbers,

tell stories now of

unknowns, known.

Manipulate symbols to undo

what has been done.

But

there is no inverse

for your words.

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Mom/Teacher

I am the center.

You web away to explore

then weave yourself back.

Sundays

I am of brown and green mountain peaks

that glisten white in the Winter

(this was before inversion).

Of the only house on the block

that didn’t have church on Sunday –

a mark to be fellowshipped.

My prayer came in quotes scrawled

on a miniature whiteboard

after the ritual cleaning of room and car.

I sucked dirt off floor mats

with a vacuum older than me,

and dreamed of big cities and no snow.

Warm Up

It started with a repeated beat,

the call and answer bouncing between

my footfalls.

 

No. Wait.

It started before that –

 

with the shine of a dying sun;

the breeze a whisper

that beckoned to my body,

pulled my feet into sneakers,

buds into my ears.

 

The bass teleported times:

last year this would have been it.

 

Pings and clinches

jolted me awake,

drew my jaw tight.

I called out for work

as I thought, “Here we go.”

 

Sleepless nights would pile up,

the pain a slow, seven day crescendo.

 

And then

you were here.

 

Wait.

 

That’s how it started.