because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

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It was never quite like this,

the shallow wading pool of past, its pink
mermaid-clad collapsible sides filled
with dead grapevine Mom wrestled
from the cage-wire fence & sunk
in its bathwater depths to be made more
pliant for the working. Once I buried
a burn there, dip’t surreptitiously
from a showoff jump on Old Miss Judy’s
just-rid bike, my shiny white shin in stark
relief to the gap-black teeth of her red-
haired grandson. I remember, too, the stains
of walnuts that fell like dull tennis balls
all around the pool’s pressed grass;
a quarter a bucket all Indian summer long
while Mom cut & shaped & dried
under the shade of the bitter leaves.
I keep one of those wreaths cornered
in the utility closet under winter coats,
still, dusting its thick ribbon & fluffing
up the bow after every first frost has passed.

Driving

under drying skies, north,
passing fields
the summer has been too wet
to turn brown,
i wait for God
to appear, for poems to rise
like mists, for some sort
of ever

that doesn’t sting.
croon to me like a wild road,
sunlight spider-webbing
across a cracked windshield
across strange arms
across a morning we can all afford
to spend and live
and live.

resuscitation

this: the summersmell
of sun’s warmth smoothed
on entwined skins & their mattress promises;

his weight against the crescent of your womb
& peach moonshine on late indian half-full
nights, amber-fingered and dripping

like candleflame through open windows;
the sweat that beads on scars; the slight lightening
of irides from hardwood to hazel

in riverlight on a Sunday afternoon
under a sky like September
with clouds like a ribcage

spread in a deeper inhale.
it is enough to make you feel like drowning,
like you are being brought back

to life. some days they can pull you
from the pull of the water.
some days you simply sink.

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