Category Archives: Writing

The truth of honey and salt

You once told me, the moon is made of salt,
that all the tears that ever were are kept
hidden there, disguised as dust. You spoke
matter-of-factly, your pale face made sanguine
by the dying sun. With deft fingers you stole
dew from the grass, bade me drink from your palm.

Above us, fronds of fern and palm
swayed like dancers, grains of sand and salt
working their way between the blanket we stole
and the promises we had not kept.
I understood, then, how to stay sanguine;
my heart beat faster with every word you spoke.

You plucked the petals from a flower, spoke by spoke,
and pressed them like kisses into my palm,
each one as soft and sanguine
as your lips. I tasted honey, tasted salt,
wondered what it would be like to be kept
by the woman I stole.

On bare feet and keeping to shadows we stole
like thieves out of the garden; we spoke
softly, and only when necessary. We kept
silent, my breath caught under your palm.
You asked me once, what is honey without salt?
Only sweet. You were my salt, sharp and sanguine.

Forgive me: I could not remain sanguine
after all. Your hair was a silver stole
across your bare shoulders. I licked salt
from your skin, seined words from your breath; you spoke
my name, teeth against my palm:
another promise never meant to be kept.

If I had known, then, I would have kept
quiet, would have watched the sanguine
light crest the garden wall at dawn, palm
shading my eyes, dust in my throat. You stole
peace from my heart when you spoke
the truth of honey and salt.

You always seemed the sanguine one; I am the one to salt
wounds. I kept my heart in my palm; I never spoke
how willingly I gave what you claimed you stole.


This month’s poetry slam form is the sestina. It’s harder than it looks, if you can believe that.

Not your princess

My mother poisoned apples. My father hid his heart inside a tree. It was a family thing, dealing death and dodging it.

I don’t have time for subtlety. I tried being quiet; I pretended to sleep. I tossed a twig and grew a prickly thicket ‘round my house. You cut it down.

I call lightning into my palm. Dare you to open that door.


Shields

Right now, my kids are watching the news. To be specific, they’re watching election results roll in. They don’t understand the full scope of things, but they know that Mama likes the blue people. That she supports health care and education and gun control and protections for people who don’t look like her or them. These all sound like good things to my elementary-school-aged kids.

I really don’t like it when they glue their eyes to the screen. The political ads lately have been hard to take – on both sides. My kids are confused by the name-calling and the bullying. Right now, they are earnestly trying to parse the politispeak, cheering every time they see a blue name with a checkmark next to it. Don’t tell me I brainwash my kids. We try to be circumspect and as honest as possible when we talk about politics, but kids aren’t stupid. They know what bad behavior looks like. They know what fairness looks like. Not just my kids; ask any kid on the playground. They know when they’re being lied to. When Trump won the 2016 election, my older son cried.

I don’t have the heart to tell them how little I believe this particular mid-term election will change things. I’m trying to stay positive for their sakes. I’m already talking to them about the next election – if there even is one. Sometimes I can’t make myself believe there will be. My rose-colored glasses are foggy and cracked.

A friend posted something the other day about how if we love our country, we need to stay and keep working to make it better. I do love my country, or at least the ideals that have been drummed into our heads since we were kids, that are being drummed into my kids’ heads now: Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I’m grateful I was born here and not someplace scarier. Right now, there’s a caravan of refugees heading toward our southern border because they believe in those ideals too, or maybe they just believe it must be better here than where they came from. That it must be safer here. One can only imagine.

Sometimes I dream about packing up my family and moving someplace safe, too. I have a stack of paperwork that says we are a family: me, my wife, my children. Name change documents, marriage documents, adoption papers, birth certificates. But I don’t believe in paperwork anymore, not when children are being taken from their families all along the border. Don’t tell me, those aren’t American children. Does it matter? They’re children, and this is America. Paperwork is a thin shield against the potential erasure of your family.

Right now, I’m watching the news, and I don’t feel safe.


How to plan a funeral

Message your family first. Call your wife. Tell them, she’s gone.

Sit vigil by her bedside until your brother arrives. Her brother brings espresso; her sister brings a cake. They had promised her something with flavor, near the end. Her brother touches a cup to her lips.

Go to her house. Start to assess what needs to be done: estate sale, house cleaning, realtor. Spend an hour or two catching her cats.

Collect her ashes from the funeral home.

Go to dinner with your family. She would have liked that. Order tequila shots all around; she would have liked that, too.

“She didn’t want a funeral,” her sister says. Try not to hate yourself for being relieved.

Swallow your tequila. Start planning something else: a vacation, maybe, to scatter her ashes somewhere she loved.


The boys next door

The knock at the door came at a bad time.

I’d driven for two days straight with a car full of things from my dead mom’s house–on the anniversary of her death, no less. One kid was in the bath, the other was clamoring for dinner. The neighbors were having a Sunday evening backyard party despite the drizzle and we had to shut the kitchen window because it was so noisy. The Kavanaugh debacle was still fresh in my mind and I was still angry. All I wanted was a glass of wine and to shake the knots out of my shoulders.

“It might be someone we know,” my wife said, and so I stomped to the door, ready to snip at whoever was there, and yanked it open.

“Hi,” said the rather good-looking young man on our porch. He was barefoot and held a can of beer in his hand. “We really need someone to take a group picture.”

I wasn’t exactly dressed for a party in my yoga pants and over-sized elementary school sweatshirt. I wasn’t even wearing a bra. Still. “Let me get my shoes,” I said.

The boys next door had strung up lights. Food was laid out on a red tablecloth, and music was playing. Fifteen or so early 30-somethings crowded the small backyard, trying not to step on each others’ toes in the damp grass. Jake and Patrick wore matching Hawaiian shirts; Patrick had their dog, Girlfriend, in his arms. A cheer went up when I came through the gate.

A blonde girl in a red dress handed me her iPhone and scampered off to join the group.

“Dude, did you knock on the neighbor’s door?” somebody muttered.

“I mighta,” said the barefoot beer-drinker.

“Hold on, I’m gonna take a bunch,” I said. “Hopefully one of these will turn out.”

I snapped five or six shots, hoping that everyone’s eyes were open in at least one of them. Girlfriend barked the whole time. The blonde girl came for her phone and squealed at the photos, so I guess I did okay.

“Is there an occasion?” I asked, mostly out of politeness. “Somebody’s birthday?”

“They got married!” someone called out.

In the midst of social chaos, when white supremacists and Nazis speak freely and without repercussion, where passports are being revoked and protections reversed, halfway through the reign of Donald Trump, Jake and Patrick got married. In their backyard on a Sunday night, surrounded by their closest friends, their chosen family. It was a surprise wedding, somebody told me. Everyone thought it was just a barbecue.

“You guys,” I said. “I’m gonna cry.”

“It’s okay,” said the blonde girl. “We all did.”