Cascade

8.26.13

The new rubber part that carries me.
Tomato vine tar, butterflies.
Awake at 4am thinking.
Hum of NPR on the highway.
No end in sight.
Stuck inside my beautiful body.
Weird succulent that looks like a cascade
of snow peas, this
is for you.
Water when you need it.
It starts to rain.  I mean
I was up all night swelling
with forgiveness.
I've always needed someone like me
to take care of me.

The march

8.5.13

woke up on the floor again.
drank from the amber jar
water poured two blocks
away. 
lugging boxes
under the absurd
blueness.
what was I supposed to do.
I grew up across town.
the neighbor mowed
over my garden and I
stood out on the stoop all day singing
the national anthem
to the drone of air conditioners.
they woke me up three days before
my ninth birthday
and we went.
it’s august this time. 
past dogwood,
past magnolia. 
I want to jump in the car
and get out of here.  the mountains
twenty minutes west.
the river thirty minutes
east. 
bone-tired.  the war I know I’m not
going to win. 
so I make it a peace march.
this is my flag of freedom.  I'm alone
in the yellow room, breathing.
how much farther can I go?