wyrdwind

Ember

I remember

her whole rib cage in my hands,

lifting her tiny frame over my head

to support her pull-ups.

She was so proud.

My picky eater middle child.

At first she wouldn’t read,

until one evening I corner glanced

from my own book.

She’d crept out

with a book of her own

just for an excuse

to sit with me on the couch.

I sent a picture to her mama

in the next room.

One winter slept over

and at midnight through a cat eye

I watched the little sprite

stoke and blow on the fire

half asleep herself.

Woke to her favorite stuffed animals

piled on my pillow.

She cleaned her brother’s blood off

his laptop

so her mama wouldn’t have to.

Everyone calls her selfish

without heat, comparative relief,

but everything she does

is something I would do.

Favorites

My direct line

is a heavier cord than 911,

nobody calls me without a reason.

Your best bet is text. That day,

her mama asked ahead

that I answer, said

it’s important.

She couldn’t make a sound.

I sensed what happened,

but not which one.

In retrospect,

she’d always said

the one death she couldn’t recover from

would be her son’s.

Weeks gone by, some months

and change,

we had a fire, us three.

Babygirl was grumpy

until we brought the brisket out.

I can always tell

what’s attitude and what’s hunger. Tired.

Demolishing gas station barbecue under the stars,

a tallboy passed between us, her mama’s glock

within easy reach like big girl Ouija board.

She asked if I ever played before

and I said girl

I don’t even check my phone

or my main inbox.

Miss me with that ghost gossip.

Two piles of long wavy hair

from under a tie blanket—

have I mentioned it’s the best?

You will hear about it

several more times.

Finally she said, Miss “I’m fine,”

the recurring dream is where she cries,

confides in a witch whose face

she cannot see. Keeps

trying to tell him about

the witch’s house. Endless

rooms. A different demon

behind every door. Searches

for her brother’s there.

Last Responder

I assumed

someone had binge watched

CW Hulu in the other room

while I was asleep.

A surprisingly tame dream for me.

Some boy I didn’t know

fussed and acted a brat

while I tried to show affection.

Pouted. Swatted. Said he didn’t want

to fight demons. I said son

you don’t have a choice.

In this family, in this house,

we do not opt our or back down.

It is enough we’re not alone,

all of us who fought before. Now

get back in there.

But when I took his arm

I couldn’t turn the knob.

Something he had done.

That door was closed forever.

He stopped pulling away, cried.

I fixed his hair and sighed.

The road before my house became

a river.

Told him fix your face

before we get there.

Discovered

that had been the night of.

Blind Spot

Inside you

there are two sons.

One belongs to your mother,

and the other is His.

Boys are sensitive

and taught their feelings are facts.

They do not question

or introspect. Listen.

You are not tough. To be blunt,

there is no point

where you outgrow your need

or reliance upon a woman’s love. That’s

the way of our kind. Humans.

Mama is the universal

word for God on the lips and hearts

of all children. Ask again,

where has she gone?

If your mama is so worn

that she can’t hear herself,

if His voice is too loud,

then the last message

you receive on Earth

will be from that girl

who chose him,

your best friend,

but with a kindness

a boy can’t understand

texted “I love you.”

Quick Draw

Well every gun is Chekhov’s Gun

and so are most men. A truth

women don’t wanna inspect.

Her mama was shocked

when Babygirl said

her second

recurring dream sees

her father possessed.

He attacks her mama

then kills himself.

She is too small

to intercept.

Her mama said ignore it,

but we’re friends

for a reason. Her final surviving

instinct.

Those plural require rest,

deep sleep, the ability

to dream, interpret accurately,

breathe.

On the scene.

I’m the dust,

creaky shutters,

raven in the field,

slow solar saturation,

parched bottle wind.

The fastest

trigger finger in the West.

Order of Operations

She can’t recall

the witch’s words when she wakes.

Nerves wracked when I howled

to soothe a litter of coyote pups

far afield in the dark.

Looking for their mom

we passed, dead on the road.

She said the room was pitch black,

but she found him in his bed, called 911.

Bullets make a mess. Miss

“I’m fine”

broke down

building a shelf

for her brother’s ash box.

Joined Builder’s Academy

keen to move on. She’ll learn

struts, joists, columns and support beams.

Imperative,

the right tool for the task.

This and then that.

She picked a four post bed,

something soft and grand,

to replace the biohazard

removed by the coroner.

Washed and painted the walls.

Analog architecture

of a safe space. No therapist.

She doesn’t wanna talk about it,

and we both know

to let sleeping dogs lie.

She’ll know

what that witch been tellin’ her

in time.

Night Drive

When I was a small girl,

in dreams my legs mangled,

useless, ravenous demons in pursuit.

The first thing I ever learned

was Fly. High. Far. Fast.

The second was Hide.

Of course without legs

you don’t land. You crash.

It hurt.

I wasn’t small for long.

The third thing I learned

was Hunt.

As for the fourth,

we’ll call it Outside.

I never had walls to play inside,

indeed no sign of human life.

Grew to fill the space given,

spread my wings and worlds ended,

nothing dulled my senses, if it was a lot

then I was bigger. Lucid containment.

Now we’re in the car, the three of us,

windows down and distant city lights

spatter beyond dark desert mountains,

Babygirl open mouth sleepin’ in the back

to the sound of her mama and me singin’

Wildflowers and Wild Horses,

hair windswept.

On long journeys

the lead bird in a flock

works the hardest,

cuts the draft,

so those comin’ after,

some more tender,

have a chance. The benefit

of experience. The construction

of wings:

Don’t let that punkass chase ya,

tell him I set the fuckin’ terms son,

came here to find friends, eat, fuck,

and draw blood

and you’re fresh out my kinda man,

so it’s welcome

to the Thunderdome bitch. Take bets

who’s gonna win. The one with the most

mama midi-chlorians.