You’re a two-and-a-half-year-old reflector
Reminder of all the parts of me I forgot,
Suppressed or maybe healed–my psyche deflector-
Finder sweetly gathering flashes of what
I was, like leaves along the greenway. Your
Gentle spirit examining elasticity
Of limits with an innate need to be sure
Of intact animal crackers, the felicity
Found in predictable patterns, and a fascination
With angels points me back to to times when I spied
Light portals in cumulus clouds, elation
At the sounds of choirs I knew were from heaven side.
You are fully yourself, and in your you-ness
Every day’s a chance for re-membered newness.

I notice, my love, the more we nest together
In this sequester time, the more I want
To go in search of twigs and twine to feather
Our den. My truest friend and sage savant
Of this oft-confusing soul, sitting with
Your legs resting on my lap is the sweetest
Of the spots. When you get pissed or take the pith
Out of stories I sometimes tell myself (defeatist
Tales based on past fictions) I think–
Look at that–shes angry and standing
Right there–not going anywhere, brink
Of despair or highest peak–my safe landing.
I know folks don’t get this lucky, my heart.
That’s why locking this down was really smart.

An augur in ancient Rome studied signs
And bird behavior to discern a proposed action’s
Favorability rating with Latin divines.
Many have been auguring outcomes, respective factions
Prophesying destruction while others predict
Improving days. I don’t know about
The future, but the image I choose to depict
With my day-gifts is a canvas on easel, out
Where colors and drawing methods I’ve yet to learn
Await my sight-gift. We are all beginners.
This clock tick, and this. You see? Yearn
For the kingdom that loves and makes the losers winners.
There’s been an inauguration we haven’t esteemed–
The one St. Matthew told and Dr. King dreamed.

The thing we misunderstand when we say things
Like”we’re divided” and “there can be no unity”
Is that we are joined by infinite strings,
Like it or hate it, much like the beloved community
Of my nostrils welcomes oxygen that fills
My foot blood. Try it on and feel the pain
Of that statement: your sins, needs, and ills
Are not mine–I’ll take care of my main
Man–me. And we wonder why our cells
Attack themselves in this place built by jumping
Over people we knocked down, ignoring yells
For help–insisiting my drumbeat keeps thumping.
When the lungs tell the heart, “you do not belong to me,”
The spirit must vacate in the absence of We.

As far back as mid-childhood, I’ve had
Side-fat hugging my guts like cozy chain mail.
This faithful foam belly blankie holds mad
Thoughts, muffles gut yells, and keeps the jail
Cot soft–a detention center cemented together
By juvenile infractions and judgments handed down
By a very junior justice. Inquiring whether
Or not I could see the case files, I’m told The Crown
Has sealed the records. (My psychic incarceration
Takes place in a British crime drama.) This
Reminds me it’s time to watch an episode
Of The Great British Baking Show. Swiss
Rolls and scones. Yum. TV a la mode.
These loyal chums have always stuck by my side.
It’s objectively true–everything is better fried.

When I put the frozen waffle box
On the counter, our second son likes
To wail, “WAAAAFFLLLLEEEE!” And hold on to your socks
Because he howls with force. After the “yikes,
You’re loud” passes through my brain, I remind
Him we have to wait for the toaster to do
Its magic. “WAAAAFFLLLLEEEE!” “Wait” isn’t the kind
Of word this one-year-old likes. Me neither. You?
I always think about God during waffle screams–
How there God is, toasting a nice blueberry
Breakfast treat, perhaps getting the ice cream
Scoop from the drawer (!) for my fave frozen dairy.
I’m convinced God must be holding out,
And God’s just warming syrup while I pout.

Front porches have been on my mind, the hours
I spent taxing the chains, bolts, and grease
Of Papa and Grandma’s front swing. Flowers
(Lilies, shamrocks) and boxwood sat near. Peace
And quiet visited like Preacher Tom bringing
Tomatoes. One day I sat alone on the glider,
And Grandma opened the screen door. Wringing
Out a rag and clearing a trespassing spider
Web, she said, “You see, if you were in
The city, you’d have a neighbor right there and there.
You couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t even poot.” Her grin
Played under her glasses, and she sat in the rocking chair.
Front porches are the place we meet our guest
And share our drinks and food, and both are blessed.

On interstate 85 just outside
Gaffney, South Carolina, there’s a peach-
Shaped water tower. When you ride
By it’s hard not to notice, nay, reach
The objective conclusion that this lofty H2O
Holder looks like a yellow-orange butt.
Peaches are also a fruit known to grow
Well in Georgia. They’re delicious cut
Into wedges or baked in a cobbler. We had peach
Trees in our yard as a child, and my parents put
The ripe fruit in homemade ice cream–each
Spoonful heaven–chasing fireflies barefoot.
I think also about the wasted fruit
That fell and rotted, stones that couldn’t root.

Lately moss has been confronting me
With green, quiet significance. It boldly grows
In pavement cracks, on unseen bark, free
To sit still and soft on a stump or rows
Of stones that used to be a wall. I see
These viridescent carpet patches lying
Meditatively still–infinitive to be–
Beautiful and enough, giggling at all my trying.
These microcosm forests–I think what one
Cell must look like, how infinitesimal
And necessary it is, chloro-filled and sun-
Avoidant, ever-leftward moving decimal.
It was childhood–my love for moss began to grow
Because it’s not grass. That you have to mow.

How many times did you hear, “That didn’t hurt,”
“Don’t cry like a little bitch,” or “Nobody cares
About your moaning.”? Enough to rub some dirt
On it, get up and keep limping? There are prayers
In the Bible that are mostly weeping–
The kind of howling that would confine most boys
To the permanent penalty box. No one’s keeping
Little pussies on their team–all that noise
And snot. So when that shit starts to surface, shove
It hard, and crush it down like a car compactor.
You won’t be able to hear the roar for love.
You’ll strut and fret, a you-obsessed bad actor.
The first smoldering shut-up detonated the lies
That piled like concrete rubble on stifled cries.