I Want My Poem To Do Like The Sweet Gum Does
My street has no stop signs.
We are quarter-mile light to roundabout
with nothing but schoolbus
stops and cracked sidewalks,
35 posted but 55 standard,
and the sweet gum tree in my yard
is the cautionary tale we all need.
Roots wrapping the wastepipe,
limbs growing low into the yard
so mowing is a clothes-line event.
And those monkey-fist seed pods
like God’s angry Velcro balls,
digging into the yard, piling along
the driveway edges, dotting
the sidewalk with ankle-breaking
toughness. I have labored hours
with rake and fingernail, picking
them from my crabgrass and clover
lawn, trying to gather them in piles
at street’s edge or into bags like
a horde of tiny lego pieces. They are
nature’s middle finger and they will
not be ignored. Not for cell phone
nor expensive shoe. Everyone slows
just a little and steps careful
as they pass my house, watches
for the kid next to them
or the old gal walking the dog.
Everyone, for a moment, aware
of each other, right there in the quiet
effort, in the small of my green.
The Dressing Room at Kohl’s Is on the Other Side of the Building
But here I am, arms full of wireless
overweight nearly-A juniors bras
obvious in my awkwardness, walking
past a hovering dad excited to hear
how the homecoming dresses look,
two teens in the largest dressing stall
as I slink into the tiny corner spot.
Gaining weight has not made a B
from the what has always challenged
the mammography machines,
but I find other curves to the sides
and back, find that worse than
extra curves, I have old lady skin,
that melted cream crackling
surface I remember on grandma.
The girls next door have picked
definite favorites, the dad bellowing
Yes! Looking good, girls! We are
winning today! And I fumble with
an underwire 4 inches not wide
enough and then a Medium I could
smuggle socks out with. I loved
being with my grandma shopping,
running out to get her extra sizes,
the same style but in the red, which
she always looked good in.
In a text to my husband, I tell him
where I am, that trying on bras is why
women kill themselves, and he says
wait, you are undressed in public?
Damn that’s hot. You know where
bras look best? On our bedroom floor.
He says listen, you are the hottest
woman I’ve ever known, at every age.
And despite myself, I believe him.
The Bird Feeders
It’s something I do every day—
doom scroll past headlines,
like/post/subscribe – find
a diatribe about finance
and fall into the endless swirl
of angry rebuttals.
But the reels too – the funny
clips or Kendrick Lamar
clapbacks, the tips about
cooking and gardening.
Nestled between updates
about immigration mandates
and tariff threats is a video of birds
with a warning about bird feeders—
disease and predation.
My husband does it too, with his
what the hell‘s and get a load
of this‘s, all red-faced and rolling
toward an evening long lecture.
We sink into online puzzles
and reels of eccentric women cooking
or dogs singing on cue. We’re
so hungry. We’ve stopped reading
books. We barely write these days.
And every celebrity call-out
resounds like an echo, every
political accusation spreads
like a virus making us numb.
An Onion article that sounds
too true and a Wall Street one
you can’t believe. We can’t tell
who waits to devour us, how we’ll
get away or if we’ll even try.
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