wyrdwind

Lavender Latte

I wear florals to funerals—

some unwritten rule I suppose—

and gods spare me hours of wake.

An ancient lady kissed my face,

that part’s okay. Who’s to say

which of those present were hers.

See something you like, lips first.

And I wasn’t settin’ foot in that church

without caffeine.

Kept the whole procession waiting

apparently. The Firstborn Son

certainly didn’t say anything.

Up, down, up, down, the whole

ordeal. Some kid picked his nose

in the front row and squealed.

Purple lights in a bird bath,

because Catholic. Intermittent Latin.

When I listened,

birdsong and children

at play. What goes on,

it’s my way.

Daddy did say

when I got a little older

I’d notice men do whatever

I ask. To be careful with that.

I don’t often task

them with things. It’s true,

they don’t say no to me.

Ran an asshole off the road for me.

Threw desks and came to blows

because someone had the audacity

to sit in my seat.

Native Tongue

Everyone knows these lines:

your name I cry aloud in the night,

first cut of my meat and sip

of my wine. All that is mine

to give. Oh I live

for my first language.

It’s not so much English.

It’s any instrument, rhythm

and remnant, rhapsody revenant,

syllabic supplicant.

Not the what of it, the how.

Art of the ember, breathing fire

wherever sparks be found.

Spirits need a house.

There’s no home without,

no child lost, it’s not bricks

or mortar, it’s warmth.

Sooner or later, sooner or later,

you return to the earth, herself

a molten heart, a mighty hearth.

Grip Strength

I’ve pulled thrice my mass

in a deadlift. Held an opponent

twice as big in simple guard

until he spent. Men

are a bit like horses in that

you can’t force them. A man

needs to know you understand

when you mount him. His nature

and what you’re askin’.

He’ll let you

put him through his paces,

move forward places no horse

can see, well the gods gave that gift

to me. I promise you’ll feel my weight,

it’s eternity, what’s unseen and pervades.

I’ve infinite flair for whimsy but baby,

I can swing. Low and deep,

they’ve never directly observed its waves,

perhaps a wider stance, open hands,

an anchor out to sea. It was always

my gravity set you free.