and my mother buried him at the Waynesville cemetery in a double plot with a pair of tombstones, one for him and an unmarked slab waiting for her, and my father became a crow in the red maple behind the house in Hazelwood, and my mother lived another thirty years and waited for the day when she would lay down again with my old man. And sometimes my father would call her and sometimes she would pack a picnic lunch and sit outside sharing a pb & j and a slice of Dad’s favorite cherry pie. And often, she would be scolded with a caw from the telephone line running to the back of the kitchen. And she didn’t mind when my father stole the seeds for the smaller birds she kept in the bird-feeder hanging from the maple all winter long.…
The latest resolution composed at 0549 on a Friday travelling 61 mph on the 405 as mist from trucks around me bathes my car in a benevolent poisonous rinse; this rain the first since April & so encumbered with unreasonable expectations similar to that of the first born to a failing monarchy; on it I do swear to refrain from writing anymore about birds. Or the moon.…
The moon has shrunk itself into a single bright bead inside the porchlight—
like a thought I meant to finish, or an apology I kept editing until the meaning fell out.
It’s the porch of the blue house, the one just down the road from that whole Malibu dream
we tried to inhabit. And I keep replaying our first Halloween party,
remember? You in the ruby slippers, me in that stupid “KANSAS” tee in BRAT font, like I was auditioning to be a state you’d speed through on your way to someplace shinier.
We called the place “Maliboo”— yes, the pun, I know, I know, but back then nothing haunted us. Not really.
Only laughter slipping under the doorframes,
glitter welded to the baseboards, a bowl of punch glowing like liquid rubies on the kitchen table.…
I buried my heart on the marble floor of the moon. The blood kept seeping out from the grave, staining the moon’s white floor.
Heartless, I stand every night, staring above, out in the open meadows of green, mourning the heart that keeps bleeding still, birthing a giant stain of faded red, even after three years.
What have I done? A celestial crime. The glowing white moon will one day turn pink, and every soul in the universe will curse my name.
Because the heart still keeps bleeding from its broken veins, and for eternity, it will. It bleeds, and lets me know: to me, it doesn’t belong.
Author’s Note: “The Bleeding Moon” emerged from a moment of sudden darkness during a power outage at midnight, while I was painting beside my open window.…
“I don’t know why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down.” Max Eastman, The Enjoyment of Laughter
Just lie there.
Maybe fall asleep or roll around a bit, hunker down under the radar, let gravity hold you in its arms, let the grass or floor or sidewalk kiss your cheek.
Standing up is overrated.
As a kid, I remember lying on my back, staring for hours at clouds tumbling in slow motion against blue, seeing shapes like dragons or sheep, sailboats or sharks or bearded faces.
The body needs to rest, to slow down and wallow in what little time it has. I’ll enjoy the view from down here and forget about everything in this world I won’t be able
