These Rivers, I See.

Like rivers folding,
Like rivers crossing,
My mother told me I could not have anymore
Books.
That was the day I mourned the loss of books,
Every kind of books,
Big ones and little ones,
All of them inbetween.

I didn’t think about him,
The old friend who betrayed me,
The one who became homeless and ate out of
Trash cans instead of learning how to speak,
The one who ate sunflowers and
Prayed silently to God to smite him, the one whose newer
Friends made fun of my suffering,
Called me a cow, a liar, a fiend, a cheater on tests
Of all kinds.

I didn’t think about him,
The man who taught me nothing,
The man who taught me how selfish he is at funerals
And at home,
The man who would only let me use his toilet if I was standing
Up, because he didn’t believe in the scar on my forehead.

The anger seeps inside of me, I can’t even feel the anger
Because I have to pay my taxes, because I have to dig wells
For people I never meet, because my friend thinks he is right
When he isn’t never. Who is right anymore? Surely not the Republicans,
The old men who drown in sorrows in coffee shops,
In doughnut shops,
Dreaming of places they will never see.
He didn’t give me an apology like he said.
Wouldn’t tell me his own name.

My Husband Talked To a Man With an Eyepatch.

The surgery I had lasted three hours long.
My husband was cooped up in the waiting room,
Talking to a man with one leg and an eyepatch
Over his left eye.
He said he was here for his father’s open heart
surgery,
Of which he had several.
He says every day the doctor tells him
He has twenty-four hours to live.
His family takes it as a joke, now.

The doctor’s used kitchen utensils, and stitches; they said
This later, when I was in the recovery room,
Eating jello and drinking ginger ale.

The nurse’s shoes sound like whispers on
The cold linoleum.
When I watched tv,
I had to cran my neck upward to see it.

Unrequited Bitterness.

The only movies you have are the ones in your head.
The bodies of mothballs litter the floor. My mother trips
over one of them on her way outside-there is no foolishness, only things
that are wrought, discovering the shadows that pinpoint each
star. In the sky, the pigeons flock, clouds move gently
toward broken meadows.

I have called myself out on a lot of things. Like licorice and
broken game systems. I didn’t mean the things I said,
the words were something I said out of anger. Bitter loneliness
flocks the island. I trip on my own two feet on the way
up the stairs. Love is in the air but I don’t feel it.