The shadow loomed
closer to where
I sat cast by the trembling tree
in the light of the moon
I felt a chill and found myself
shaking in unison
Wondering if the fingers
reaching out from
the branch
Might
scratch
my skin
if they
got
too
close
Shhhhh, baby’s asleep
hard time settling in
fan’s abuzz
darkness dim
Done with snuggles
sung the songs
baby in blankie
found stuffed frog
Blinds drawn down
night light switched on
doors closed softly
baby sighs once.
TRIGGER WARNING: This poem contains references to childhood trauma, gun violence, animal death and desecration, and disturbing imagery involving cruelty to animals. It reflects lived experience and may be distressing for some readers. Please read with care.
Apparently, it is not most people’s
experience to be shot at on a
summer morning before the heat
forces children indoors to rest.
I guess we thought it was a mostly
fair fight, since we were lobbing
rocks and they couldn’t hit moving
targets if their lives depended on it.
Two neighbor boys teamed up with
their boredom and a whole summer
of scheming to counter our riotous
fun they were not invited to join.
But they took it too far when they
unburied Daisy Bo Kay, our freshly
dead basset hound, and strung her up
in a tree hoping we’d find her corpse.
She didn’t do anything to deserve
such treatment, just sit and sigh,
howl when we got too rambunctious,
witness the strangeness of our survival.
My son Trey, short for Trajectory, lives in a parallel universe. With my whiteness stirred in, he is a lighter-skinned miniature version of his father, right down to the little glasses that he’s needed since he started reading at the age of two. He stands in the driveway waiting for the school bus, swishing his skirts back and forth, and my heart aches because I know the teasing he will endure. He is a queen for the Living History Museum whose merits he and his father talked excitedly about while I made the costume, torn between pride that my son’s favorite person is a woman and the compulsion to pressure him to pick a man. This morning as I sip my tea in my present universe, tears spring unbidden at this memory. Here, my history-loving husband and I chose not to have Trey or any other children. Oh, how I miss my sweet boy.
TRIGGER WARNING: This poem contains graphic metaphoric language and imagery related to physical harm, violence, and bodily injury, presented in a stylized and symbolic manner. While not literal, the content may be disturbing for some readers, particularly those sensitive to themes of abuse or violence in relationships. Reader discretion is advised.
Start with the pinky, snap the tip
Then work your way up the hand to the wrist
To break the arm, you’ll need a tight grip.
When love takes hold and makes the heart skip
You might hesitate, but I must insist
Start with the pinky, snap the tip
The signal an upward curve of the lip
Ignore all attempts if one tries to resist
To break the arm, you’ll need a tight grip.
Dresses are easy, they merely unzip
Buttons are harder; they require a twist
Start with the pinky, snap the tip
If all else fails, just give it a rip
No need to worry, no one will be missed
To break the arm, you’ll need a tight grip.
The best way to tackle a relationship
is to find the one who’s never been kissed
Start with the pinky, snap the tip
To break the arm, you’ll need a tight grip.
You ever wonder how we keep from flying off this giant muffin when it’s going over 60,000 miles an hour? Like, a spaceship made of dirt and water, it’s outer skin nothing more than a layer of air holding all us guts in while screaming through space at 60,000 miles an hour. And any second another chunk of rock could slam into our bowling ball hot air balloon and we could shoot off like fireworks spraying out of a soda bottle at 60,000 miles an hour. Unless we’re more like a frisbee ‘cause we’re flat earthers and this giant paper plate planet is flinging and boomeranging around the sun at 60,000 miles an hour. Maybe the whole way to survive in this solar system is to keep moving as fast as you can, ‘cause if we stop, we die, and nobody wants to die, well, some people want to die, but not like that in a crash going 60,000 miles an hour. And think about it, these doctors are trying to slow us down with all these meds, making us walk around like zombies eating our own brains, drooling in our sleep, and slurring our speech ‘cause that’s supposedly better somehow, even though they should be smart enough to know that we have to keep the wheel spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning at least 60,000 miles an hour, or we’ll screech to a halt and scream forever like that Munch painting where the squiggledy guy is slapping both hands on his face like the Home Alone kid all because Krakatoa blew and burned and bled.
Shall we dance?
Ok, people
let’s get this show
on the road.
Saddle up
This cowboy’s
ready to ride.
Doc, she’s a high five.
I know, I know.
I’m double gloved.
I ain’t afraid o’ no ghosts.
But I do wish
she was a virgin.
She’s a road map, Doc.
Yep. I’m ready.
Why are we
still gabbing?
Let’s Whipple this
in time for lunch.
Doc, she’s already painted.
Cameraman?
Check.
She good and out Gas Man?
Check.
10-blade.
Have I told y’all
about the 11-hole GSW?
We’ve heard that one, Doc.
Hmmm….well, how about
back when I worked ER,
and Sister Mildred was
a frequent flier,
always came late at night.
Doc, we’ve heard them all.
Telling my tales
relaxes me,
keeps me focused.
Humor me, people.
What about Biker Bill?
That’s a good one, Doc.
Well, Biker Bill
was circling the drain,
refusing to discharge up.
His organs were trash.
We needed his bed.
Doc, she’s trying to help.
Dammit, Gas Man,
do your job.
Why do you get
the big bucks
if not to make
my job easier?
Are you kidding me?
Ok, she’s out Doc.
Buzz me, Nurse.
So Biker Bill
just won’t do
the celestial discharge
and in walks
his wife.
I’ll need the retractors next.
Doc, why was he in the ER?
Metal poisoning. Followed
by MVA. So, anyway,
in walks his wife.
All she wants to know
is if he cheated on her
before getting
himself shot.
Did he, Doc?
Well, that’s where
the story gets good.
Test him for VD,
she screams.
The guy’s doing
the death rattle,
but she wants proof.
Doc, you ready for staples?
Almost, but then
in walks the girlfriend.
After security broke up
the fight, I had to lay crepe
with them handcuffed
to either side of
his bed.
I thought you broke up the fight, Doc.
Maybe I did,
I don’t remember.
I just know it took
that man way too long
to check out and we
had to sit and listen to
their love triangle all night.
Doc, we done?
Yep. This one’s
a winner. I think
we got it all.
Good work, team.
I told y’all we
could finish in
time for lunch.
sturdy frame easily holds
both grandbabies at once
joints bare from wear, but
wheels roll smoothly, so
dishes can be washed, floors
swept, homelife lived from
the position of a butt-hammock
despite unbearable pain
9 plastic spokes radiate from the center of
23-inch diameter fixed-position wheels
solid Urethane black tires worn to the rim
handrims, breaks, bearings, black steel, bolts
black vinyl handle grips with finger indentations
7-inch rotating wheels, axles, nuts, forks
padded vinyl arm rests, spacers, screws
blue vinyl seat, pillow to cushion the ride
holding hands in starlit silence
the slow-burn spark
of Ferris wheel romance
dizzy laughter tilt-a-whirl
electric heartbeats between
wonderstruck stolen glances
cotton candy carousels
and moon-drunk wishes
made on neon-glow stars
ring-tossed miracles spun
from sugar and candied apples
funhouse mirrors shaping reality
fairground glitter & funnel cake
calliope music & midway games
create heart-shaped memories
suspended between now & forever
hush of hope met by popcorn kisses
magic-dusted beginnings
merry-go-round of spinning lights
show silhouettes of happiness
between breaths & possibility
rebekahjmarshall 