loose leaf poetry

mentions (implied and not) of guns, covid, being closeted, death

​

recently i’ve been calling my mother

who seldom picks up before the twenty-third ring

she asks me if i meditated this morning

as i balance my phone against my computer screen

yes, for ten minutes; no, i’ve been staying inside —

to breathe right now is a sure way to die.

 

i roll through expressions, all six faces of a die

till the line connects and the dimples chip off, because my mother

understands, or at least she’ll try — deep down inside

she knows her child concocts too much despairing.

today i saw a gunman, i tell her; he spoke to us through a screen

and i was worried, and i was tired, and i slept twelve hours into the morning.

 

the future does not beseech me for early mourning

but i’m worried sick, i’m worried i’m sick, old habits die

hard. i tell her i’m still waiting for my results from the screen-

ing; she asks, why worry, as if she is the child and i the mother

because it’s contagious, i say. because i kissed someone. my eyes wring

out what my lips fail to utter; they’re not a man. one day i’ll tell her the inside

 

scoop: how is it that all of these events coincide?

i watch opaque lamplight homogenize with the light yolk morning

force myself out of bed, embellish my statue, don silver vines of ring

on each finger, each lent hand, each opportunity i left to die

congealing guilt of the oil spill i’ve let leak; i wonder if my mother

feels this, too, or if she puts her loneliness through a sieve to screen.

​

i try out a schedule: lather sunscreen

under my eyes in case the rays let themselves inside

my room; water my plant, whose leaves are red with Mother

Nature’s rage. i got breakfast this morning,

bagel with arugula and lox, are you proud? to die

must be simpler. my devil sings as my angel gives my tree another ring.

 

time is my most neglected offering

she asks me if it’s too much for me here, wrinkles pixelated on the screen

don’t worry, i say, i’m too much of a coward to die

pinky calluses and hangnail scars mark my escapades inside

this ventricular cage: i claw, i do, or i will tomorrow morning,

i sigh — for nothing’s left to smother.

 

but she laughs because ‘mother’ is too formal; i let her voice ring

as my thumb leaves greasy prints on the morning paper of my cellular screen

forgetting the berries i’ve left to die, that mold along my fridge’s inside.