The statutory period for grace runs out.
Now there’s pacing to get out of limbo or running in circles for mercy and hunting for evidence of tender justice.
Nothing makes sense.
Expectation, reward, history, dreams –
everything gone mad.
Waiting for any of it to slouch
forward to resolution or peace might be a fool’s game.
All I can do is keep my sights at ground level and hope the light doesn’t fail before I do.
Leaving Wegman’s on a Sunday
What color are baby’s eyes? Mama’s?
What color would you call that hair?
What color is their gambling?
What color is his Jamaican soul?
What color is the grocery clerk’s floral scent?
What color is his refusal to understand?
What color is her disappointment?
What color is today’s winter cold?
Came across this To-Do list last week and it struck me as a form of found poetry.
Poem: Old To-Do List
Eliminate tabs in manuscript. Three hundred more pages. Make lunch. Make dinner. Cream of celery soup? Moisturize. Walk at least 6,000 steps, 7,000 better. Pick up dog hair — always pick up dog hair. Start a new jigsaw puzzle. Write note to DB. Keep reading about how to update website. Record emails of subscribers. Oh god — 600! Pick prompt for tomorrow. Keep reading DO YOU REMEMBER BEING BORN? Neaten password lists (Ha! Fat chance). Water mosquito plant. Vacuum upstairs rugs. Think about scrubbing the tub. Consider Wednesdays.
Eight haiku from June. It was a month of blazing heat, doctors’ appointments, editing and book design, and a trip to Northern California
6/2
“Scootch,” “it’s” possessive,
too many “beautifuls.” Red
pen gets a workout.
6/3
Anchovy paste, salt,
lemon juice, chocolate. But
ratatouille’s bland?
6/4
Low-decibel leaf
blowers the norm after years
of law-breaking noise.
6/5
“All we are left with
is stooges and sycophants.”
Unprecedented.
He’s a uniquely
talented arsonist, the
convicted felon.
Adam Schiff
6/6
The rain, it falls now.
Drops make Virginia Creeper
dance. Where are my socks?
6/7
Is this what dying
is like? Lying down, hearing
a clock tick, traffic.
6/10
Burdock grows tall, proud.
Sun warms the parking lot and
the air moves sweet, cool.
5/1
Either I’m a queen
or God has a three hole punch.
White petals galore!
5/4
The question is not,
“Why did she cry?” But, “Why on
earth didn’t she quit?”
Lawrence O’Donnell
5/7
“You remind me of
my daughter.” Was this before
or after they fucked?
5/8
To walk around the
block is to hear at least one
jackhammer. Or two.
5/14
The Jews came before
the Fall of the Temple. Spice
traders, diplomats.
5/16
“All out of beans at St. Peter’s Basilica”
Massive crowds: three beans.
Waiting, waiting: four beans. Heat:
three beans. Tired: four.
5/17
Vatican guard. My
mother painted one and my
father stabbed it. Rip!
5/18
Underground in the
catacombs, empty slots speak
to years of bone theft.
5/19
Opera below our
window. Liquid notes, honey
or cool spring water.
5/18
Capitalism
in decay as evidenced
by endless selfies.
5/19
A Tuscan farmer
surrounded by bright yellow
fruit. Ceramic art.
5/20
Grey paving stones shine,
or go dark in the rain. Low
ones pool with water.
5/21
Giotto room tour guide,
“If we see any pubic
hair on the Christ child…”
5/25
In Rome and Florence
I peeked at twitter a bit,
that’s all. What freedom!
5/28
I curl up and sleep
while pundits discuss closing
arguments. What’s next?
5/30
I’d like to write of
irises or rain, but they’re
still jackhammering.
5/31
It was really a
documents case. Documents
don’t lie, don’t forget.
Barb McQuade
