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.
wyrdwind 