June 23 - 25

June 23

Upon Hearing Stephen Wilson Jr.’s “Father’s Søn” for the First Time

My father fished every Halloween –
glowstick on the end of his deep sea fishing pole
reeling unsuspecting families to the door.

My father used the same pole to fly kites
in the Maine seabent winter winds.
The kite shaped like a shark.

I’ve grown jealous of breezes
rolling effortlessly
as children slipping on ice.

He held the rod over my shoulders.
The wind vibrated down my arms,
morse code of the sky. The shark tried
to snap away, but we gave it slack
with each gust it looped towards the sky
further from the sea. His narrowed arms
surrounded my minnowed body,
held me on earth.

Am I growing into my father’s sunlight 
because I miss the melt in him,
because I want light alive again–
or just that I don’t know how to float?

He didn’t echo as his father’s son – 
too much wind
never enough shark.

Could I’ve been my father’s son
as well as his daughter?

I think I’m shark enough for him:
packful and almost patient, almost-
learning the poor lessons he taught, poor-
lessons he’d learned before. At least,
I hope so. I hope I find that kite
rolled in the attic, the basement, the garage,
reeking of mold and sky, and fish the sky.
I’ve already got his narrowed arms,
his cackle-laugh.

Perhaps, in the winter winds of Maine, I’ll launch
myself up, icing in the clouds over the sea.\
The gulls will eat my eyes
and I’ll see him again.

June 24

What Dredges When Listening to YUNGBLUD’s “love song”

Slam into my heart with secrets –
you’re screaming bloodily out anyway –
we’ve both kept them too long.

Exchanging hunger for love, was routine,
but sky-fell out of truth and now must
slam into my heart. With secrets,

I whisper over a cauldron of my body
I didn’t deserve the harsh-love.
We’ve both kept them too long,

this internal bruising, we’re just committing
our weirdest bodies to fix this wild
slam. Into my heart, with secrets,

I nurtured whatever love would grow,
It never was for myself. Just memories
we’ve both kept. Them too long

screaming we’re not good enough, never
good-enoughs. Maybe I won’t listen.
We’ve kept them too long,
slam into my heart without secrets.

June 25

Plutonian Orbit

It’s a warm day in spring and I sit 
beneath a sycamore with baby leaves
and I see your green sapling face.

I stand like I’m cornered by a predator
– some tiger waiting at me –
hands out if a 90˚ angle will defend me.

It’s high hot day in August and I roll 
into the shade of that sycamore
and you’re shirtless at the fountain.

I hold in a scream so hard I blow my voice.
I eat Oregon forest black cherry ice cream
to revive what’s left of my throat.

It’s fall, the sycamore is falling,
like the sky, and no one is out
in the gray and the thunder.

So I float down through the cobwebs
of my ceiling and land in my unmade bed.
I can’t stop moonscape-shaking.

It’s a delicate winter day after snow,
I walk looking down, and you
hit me with a snowball.

I gaze at the underlid of your eye –
whatever could be within their green irises too 
expansive in expression and reflected in my own.

I crave your hands at the mid-
crutch of my back – the wing-
spot – where I can never itch.

Caress me there, see me here,
and I’ll kiss you once
and I promise –

I don’t know what,
but I know it will taste like sun-
dried limes, cloves, and honey –