Tag Archives: gabriel gadfly

You said you wanted
me to come over,
and even though it
was nearly midnight,
I agreed.

I hit every red light
between here and
your house: start
stop wait and wait
and wait and start
just to stop and wait
again, stuck listening to
weight-loss infomercials,
right-wing talk radio,
that god-awful jingle
for the lawyer that
tries to sound like
a wild-west cowboy.

Idling under these red
cyclops eyes, I wanted
to tell you that this had
to stop, that I was going
home, that I’d see you
tomorrow, maybe,
but I finished the drive
and remembered why:
the red scent of your hair;
your lips against my neck,
saying,
“I’m glad you’re here.
I’m so glad you’re here.”

You grew up
on the side of the road,
between sidewalk cracks,
in backyards full of
tall bahia grass,
pushing aside their
stems so you could
find the sky.

You grew up
beneath the sun
and out in the rain
and under every
booming thunderstorm
an Alabama summer
could throw your way.

Dogs ran through you.
Men, too, trampled you
but you sprung back up,
rumpled, but still bright,
unbowing, even when
they said you were just
a gangly weed that no
one would find beautiful.

(I found you beautiful,
because your face was
the sun, and I find it
everywhere.)

You grew up.
You had to grow up,
grew white and fragile
and one day the wind
came for you and
carried you away.

Fly far.

The sign at the bottom of the dune
said, “Please, leave only footprints
on the beach.”

I wish I could have done that,
but our soles hit the sand
and you stalked towards the grey roil
of the surf, towards the storm
churning up off the water,
and you didn’t wait for me.

You stood down below the algae line,
up to your ankles in the cold froth,
and I didn’t want to talk to you.
Not even the seagulls wanted to talk to you,
not even the seashells or the sea,
and as I stood by the sign
imploring me to leave only footprints,
I realized you’d left me months ago
and the only choice I had
was to leave you on that beach
and wait for the tide to wash you away.

I found a stick
of Wrigley’s gum stuck
in the pages of a plum
red book of poems.
Big Red. A cinnamon
red gum stick
stuck to a poem
about birds,
about the wings of birds,
about red birds.

Cardinal. Rosefinch.
A poem about red
summer tanager,
red summer wings,
bright belly bullfinch.

Why I put cinnamon
gum to mark some
birds, some bird wings,
I can’t recall, but some things
aren’t meant to be
remembered, even
if they still burn the tongue.

Forgive the headline writer.
When he pens the phrase

GLOBAL ECONOMIC
MELTDOWN IMMINENT

he is just trying to make
a few bucks so he can
feed his cat

big bold
scary words

sell more papers
get more pageviews
get clicked get clicked

more often than

THINGS ARE REALLY
NOT SO BAD I MEAN
THE SUN IS SHINING
AND THE PLUMS
ARE ON SALE

The roots starve.

It has not rained
in days and days
and all the lively
shoots are drying
up and dying in the
brittle broken earth.

Such it is in the garden,
so it is in the heart.

Someone let all the monkeys loose
and now look at them,
yacking at the lions
because the lions are dozing
and too bored to dance for them.

Look at these monkeys
telling their children wild dogs
are hyenas and red pandas
are just giant panda bears
before they’re all grown up.

They are whistling
at the big muddy rhinoceros,
calling “Here, boy! Here, boy!
Here, rhino!” and in the primate house
they are gawking at the monkeys
and the monkeys are gawking back.