L U M I N A * N O S T R I

Horseman I smell your soldered scent on my dark blue v neck sweater. I know you are gone for good. Which boots are right for a walk through the mud? Do I stop at the top of the hill? March on to bottom of the glen?  Where can I sit and feel winsome as a younger me? How I long to stare at a horizon as if you haven’t already galloped through. 

 Not All Sundays Are Created Equal Wake up early to a world renewed. See your children’s teethy smiles, Disneyland on their horizon A photography talk on magic realism on yours. Spend your mistake with a psychic and talk about everyone but yourself. Rinse off in the Pacific, let its cold salt shock you three times through. Sleep unprotected beneath  the sand spattered sun. Sing your afternoon away  with stranger friends. Dine with your complicated family and come home with one author tried and true, and one author brand spanking new. Smash as many hearts as you can stand on the ‘Gram And sit on your back porch as the stars poke through the lies of pooling blue skies, endless. 

  One Poem To Rule Them All I am still learning to sit topless on my back  porch. The sun would ripen my used breasts like two misshapen plums. Chen Chen and Meg already know how to keep their neighbor’s secrets. The boxed wine. The infrequent visits from a daughter.   I am still learning to keep mine. What I really think about hummingbirds, the unspeakable afternoons, swirls of red paint and smoke. Even if, like Sedna, one were to lop off all my fingers, I’d keep my top held down while I ceased to struggle, while I sank. Tell me more about the music of your youth, how it feels  to know no one is coming to get you. Don’t you remember? I said I’m still learning. I hold my palms behind the backs of my ears, catching  whatever reverberates in the wind.

 Summer’s Callin’ The day I picked up your little book of poems A lady at the County-Clerk’s called me Summer On accident, first time in my life Someone’s Looked at this face and thought Yeah, that’s it. So imagine my surprise When I read the table of contents aloud, how Summer was a repeating title. There’s mention made of her In all the parts. I asked the fairy’s What I needed to ponder While I cleaned my house  instead. Like a mean bitch Princess of Autumn snickered “Study.” So study I will or I won’t, while I pick up everything Whether I find the energy drink or not, and their gone, and your collection of little poems is here.

An homage to Edith, a collection of poems written by Meg Freitag   Goddamnit I finished  Edith ,  and now all that’s left  is this an unwritten list of all the words  Meg   Freitag  knows and I don’t.  Like what’s Friday in German  according to a guy the wrong age to work at the used bookstore where you weren’t.  You’d never be!  I’ve been used by this book, Edith . You’ve undressed all parts of me. I am just another small, round fruit  you’ve picked at, entirely.  When I say bird feathers stick in the mouth, what I mean is from now on what I    put on the page Edith , is puppy dog shit, You know? It’s got you baked in and there is no going back. 

The man you've been seeing- six months in- brings you breakfast in bed.  Bacon, eggs, french toast with powder sugar strawberries and orange juice. And coffee Don't forget the coffee. You don't notice the foil on the pan,  or the tension between his brows as he eyes the bed-comforter. All you see is bounty--sugary,  starchy, bounty with a dash of protein,  topped off  with all that tart. You think this is love like you read about in children's books. The kind where even before  you wake up, there is so much   to say thank you for.  So when he proposes, five days  later, on a mountain top, what can you say?  Who would say no to a meal like that? 

 Anger She’s a sly dog, but no fox. Anger’s got no burrow, no furtive fleeting feet. She helps herself to treats that lay in wait for finer company then cutely covers her warm, wet nose with goofy-clawed paws, as if to say Oh dear. I just couldn’t help myself.

 Baptism In these parts the power goes out with out warning often enough,  we’re no longer alarmed. The kids and I just look at each other, shrug, and shove off  to our collective imagination isles. Me? My notebook. Them? Everything else. Today though called for something sweet something to ease the hankering anticipation of something godly. Brown buttresses over green frocked Episcopalian priests Permission to say Jesus Christ and mean it. We sit beside the salted water Throw rocks against rocks, see if we have what it takes to break them. Faith and hope and Emily Dickinson   later, someone was baptized, but it wasn’t us. 

 A List Of Things To Try Before Smoking A Cigarette 1. Meditate 2. Do a headstand 3. Draw something. Anything.  4. Write something you can then light on fire (wishes, burn letters, whatever.)  5. Take a shower. (No one want's to smell like cigarettes after a shower) 6. Sign up for an exercise class. (The thought of moving will make you want to protect your lungs). 7. Put on a face mask. (It'll remind you that skin ages on it's own fast enough, no need to encourage it.)  8. Brush your teeth (similar to five, but not quite as dramatic.) 9. Go for a quick walk.  10. Change your bedsheets. (Even more effective than 5 and 8 put together. Think of all the work!)  11. Write a good things list (David Sedaris calls this a "Reasons to Live List." Tomato, tomato.)  12. Read things (that do not mention cigarettes).  13. Pick a chore and do it start to finish. Better yet, write all the chores you have to do, put them in a hat, and then pick one. Chore Roulette...