April 25

“Mimmie”

She had always wanted a girl.
When her boys were young and grasshopper-legged
she sewed the same three letters to the insides of all their exoskeletons;
she had named all three of them with identical initials,
different from the ones she had tucked away
for the daughter that never happened.

The first boy steeped in creation and
Creationism. He taxidermied birds and soldered stained glass,
storytold and storytold and storytold.
Now, chip-chinned and balding,
he preaches resurrection in a room illuminated
by mosaic windows
in a town the size of an illustrated
pocket-bible.

The third boy seethed in the loneliness of being the littlest.
He learned to whet his words and
throw them like daggers;
it was his only defense.
Now, with two boys of his own,
he uses his law degree to raise them to be
fastest smartest loudest but still
lonely.

The middle boy, as all middle boys must,
mediated.

But she always wanted a girl,
a long-haired rose-hip-lipped Cherokee-cheeked
girldollchild, not these
thorny-shouldered tumbleweed-limbed sons,
too bright to look directly at amidst all the blue of
a Wyoming sky.

The middle boy,
he’s my father.
On the day 45 years after she was born
so was I.
He whittled me girl and
sharpened me loud.

When I laugh, my noes wrinkles the same way hers does.
My cheeks are just as Cherokee as hers
but my eyes are more Wyoming sky
and my hands storytell loneliness.
She had always wanted a girl.

The Sunday two years ago we all held hands around her table
to celebrate the rising son
I rolled the boulder out from in front of my throat
and told her my hands held another girl’s.

All she could do was tumbleweed her head back and forth
back and forth and back and forth and
smile in a way that made her tears
collect in the raingutter wrinkles that her laughter
has installed on the bridge of her nose.

She had always wanted a girl,
not two.

April 5

"bus stop man"

his eyes were like looking at the moon through pollution:
intimately acquainted with edges,
yellow and somehow more full than
the bruises would warrant;
“the only religion I like is taoism” he said
“and sometimes islam” and when I tried to say
“islam is from the word for peace” this
empty whiskey bottle of a man
with more journey in his gums than entire teeth said
“salaam alaikum, I know” like the years
I spent convincing my brother that
brown, terrorist, and muslim
are not synonyms
was a candle that did not deserve the lightning
of the thing I called “double standard” and this brittle bus stop man
called “racism.”