I Ching, Hexagram 58
inked notations in ruled notebooks
slung from one bag to another
toted to the next destination
random pens and pencils
pages succinctly numbered
one through fourteen in
tightly woven script
tightly woven nerves
labeled notebooks that will be
thrown away by unbiased and thorough
future estate sale coordinators
how I caught you unaware
your open heart and willingness
your wonky hip and metal cane
your red flags painted green
your guard let down
now miles past corrective surgery
your regret fills weeks piled up
in untidy heaps of dirty laundry
autonomous and independent
you attempt to shake off and hold onto
what you did not choose
the one-time caregiver you simultaneously
accept
and reject
[RK, 9-8-2020]
I Ching, Hexagram 12
logs across rural roads
a Y-turn in a rented car
not meant for rural roads
anger flares on damp, narrow trails
securely above the clouds
on a mountain not meant for clouds
a rotary telephone rings exactly ten times
in an underground ego-id complex
not meant for communication
forgiving is a push-you-pull-me effect
with noticeable stress flare-ups
not meant for deep concentration
grinding labor helps one forget
self-imposed commitments
in a season not meant for completeness
[RK, 9/8/2020]
Corner Grocery
The woman standing between the waterfall
and the mountain wall remembers
her first disappearing act, the one she performed
soon after she was allowed to run errands alone.
The butcher in the bloody apron
maybe asked a simple question, maybe
What does the little girl want?
or maybe he said nothing at all, just held her
gaze for a moment too long, then a moment
longer. Maybe she backed away without giving
him her mother’s list, knowing full well
the meaning of the word carnivore and that
it would be a long time before she would ever
eat meat for dinner again. Or maybe she just remembers
running home and hiding under her mother’s skirt,
between the waterfall and the mountain wall.
[LSS, 9/6/20]
Yet Another Autumn
Gulf of Mexico literally the color of
watered down split pea soup
where sky meets horizon
blue or gray, a million gull feathers
suspended until sunset, scintillating/ed
feathers coat evening’s dark water
octopus rise up from below
hammerheads pluck the narcissus
imagine a sky lit with nostalgia
tumbled conchs burrow against
the undertow of September
elusive fragmentary promises
left on the line to dry
instead, together, they bleach in the sun
fake bedsheets become white lies stained
with Prussic acid, red and yellow songbirds,
discarded fish bones, and soggy seagull songs
[RK, 9/3/2020]
Household Deities
The restless gods in the attic,
the basement, the bedroom closet,
anoint their limbs with sweat
from my twisted sheets.
The spider on the windowsill
suggests I remove the screen
and allow her children to come inside
for breakfast. The flies in the kitchen sink
become alarmed and scatter
at the sound of our approach.
[LSS, 9/5/20]
