Up in the Clouds
Servers migrate south.
Electrifying data streams
fluff my cats,
making them fly
like giant, stripy bees.
(April 1, 2021)
Hopeful
One morning in a rosette of blue
agave, a suburban frog
opens his mouth to rain
(April 2, 2021)
-ping-
-ping- I’m vested in my knife-throwing neighbor’s career
-ping- as a circus performer or possible magician who
-ping- diligently practices all day, an auditory pleasure
-ping- of knives slicing against each other harmoniously
-ping- with my barking dog.
(April 3, 2021)
Home Improvement
We tore up the carpets
in favor of bare floors
and in the process revealed
a functional trap door.
Inside, we discovered
a small cache
of bunny-quail, the pale
bob-white-Scandinavian type
who had made a spectacular mess.
They used old playing cards, junk jewelry,
and fast fashion to shore up the nest.
It takes a considerable
amount bunny eggs for even a modest
omelet, but we made do those first
few weeks. We built them a roomy, multi-level
hutch and they seemed content. I
forgot to secure the door and on Easter morning
we were disappointed to find the hutch
empty, except for a few tri-colored
eggs and wispy feathers that blew about.
(April 4, 2021)
Night, Monkey
That first night, my mother encountered a monkey. It rapped on the glass and swayed back and forth, arms in the air and of course she investigated because a monkey siting is a special rarity, completely unheard of but unfortunately she left her glasses inside and slowly crept over patio cobblestones around the corner of the house she recently purchased, unsure what she might encounter while a full moon illuminated much of the backyard and as she carefully unlatched the gate, something scrambled up a neighbor’s palm. She recalled that puma occasionally transverse residential neighborhoods, especially ones that skirt wild, open spaces like the one she now resided in. Now, a cloud-covered moon made her feel her way back to the French door only to find it locked then she knew her options were slim; she could try to navigate down the steep street to our house about sixteen lots away, or she could find help locally. In her flimsy white nightgown, my mother rapped on the neighbor’s door and introduced herself. After I hung up I grabbed my keys and sleepwalked up the hill while a band of monkey-like creatures hopped from roof to roof and quicksilvered themselves back into the rippling chaparral.
(April 5, 2021)
Lap Cat
A cat on a sill, another in a chair. Plus, a few more. I’ve
learned to do nothing
with a cat on my lap. No dishes, laundry,
no chore; no first wave decluttering or room
painting like what went on before
I got sick. A signifier of no.
No. Sorry, I can’t.
I have a cat on my lap.
Maybe later.
You can plainly see,
I have a cat. That won’t transfer well.
Morning begins with cats, each sunbeam spotlights
anew and the rule is: never gather, just wait
for a leap, a knead, a chin on an arm;
a barrel roll and a delicate mew.
(April 6, 2021)
Sharks
You’re certain I knew the dangers before I dove in and swam
with abandon but I’m telling you, it’s not easy to see clearly in a watery
world and maybe that’s the price of becoming enthralled in a spectrum
of blue that hits with steady ripples the way motherhood blurs sharpness.
I attribute an optimistic outlook for my resiliency,
through your first bite took away so much; I bled for years.
(April 7, 2021)
Trailer-trash Queen-bee
Morning after my pedigree queen gorges
all the fake news wallpapering her nursery,
she summons her drunk, sexy boyfriends and party-girl sisters. Urgently,
they strap sleepy daughters into designer car seats,
soar past quarantine and abandon the hive by
enacting a hover-fly straight to Vegas.
Here, for 21 invincible days (a mask-less worker’s lifetime)
they revel in privileged swarms waggle-dancing
trashy politics and swapping rarified pollen with creepy-crawler
rebels until sister-wives misplace the brood and falsely claim
her crown. In a puff of smoke (the hand of God? Colony Collapse? Karma?) all evaporate
except for my singular Queen, who cannot yet fathom
her reign is done.
(April 8, 2021)
Isolation
It’s a miniature world where silvery
sticklebacks dart among caves, grassy
inlets, and deep chasms;
where synchronized sprat and
one odd goldfish
happily nibble Prozac. No less stickle
than the rest, he curls and fans in sunlit waste until
scientists net him back to a bowl,
restoring individuality.
https://www.sciencealert.com/fish-are-losing-their-individuality-in-an-ocean-laced-with-prozac-scientists-warn
(April 9, 2021)
Old Relatives
Smooth back grey hair and kiss
her goodnight, go easy. My mother arranges
oxygen lines and tucks her mother into bed.
Earlier, we rummaged
in old photo boxes.
"Who’s this?”
Roughly, she grasps a sepia of a child in
a gown who's uncomfortably arranged in a large, ornate chair.
Hair slicked down. Pouty face. Chubby cheeks.
They wear expensive looking
hand-made shoes. I stop myself blurting don’t bend!
"That’s my father!”
she chuckles, tossing it aside.
We encounter relatives, one by one, in piles. Then the letter.
Just an everyday bit handwritten by her father’s sister,
Aunt Ida. To my grandmother’s mother, Ruth.
I read aloud:
Cousin Martha gave birth so fast she
still had on her coat and shoes when the baby arrived. They decided on Raymond.
Blaze (Martha’s brother, newly ordained), performed his first mass in front of 700.
A Saint day? We don’t know. The luncheon was a success! Ida seems boastful.
1940-something. My grandmother is a teen.
I once met the letter writer, my great-great Aunt Ida, when I was a teen. At the time,
I confused Ida and her husband, Andrew, for siblings. They were old, looked
similar and moved slowly.
(April 13, 2021)
To the Moon
Imagine the golden one, posing
cute. Instead of that white wig’s
wooden grimace. Not that we old-
school actual Georgie or Hamilitons,
so nineteen. If we happen to,
isn’t the rule a 3-day Covid-sluff?
Naw, we all virtual.
Automatic Netflix, Spotify. Gym
membership, what? Alexia, you hear
me?
Now, wouldn’t we be happier
paying like a meme? Day-trading like a
meme, unlimited call, no put. Nothing
like grandma emailing piano cat or
some nonsense -- don’t pretend you don’t
remember hang in there, you gonna
do your groceries, utilities, taxes,
etcetera comma, anyway.
Better with a knowing stare, a
playful smile; man’s (lets’ just be
gender-free) best friend; a fluff of
loyalty caught (selfied?) surprised
quick turn of head. you call me?
you say cookie? a walk? what,
Tesla? the new one, maybe a fleet?
delivered today?
A knowing nod. I got you. We global.
Option up. Caught you cute, in crypto.
(4-16-2021)
Break-up
Ah, Moderna.
Why were you so reckless? One quick encounter
and I get nocturnal inter-cranial shiver and rigor shakes. I awoke
last night to nerves buzzing, wondering if my genome rebuilt
a whole new me, one impervious to invaders (60 to 90% values).
Straight away, you readjusted my blood pressure. Now,
I admit I was nervous
and my heart began to race.
Were you strengthening my core?
Letting me know you cared? Second-tier nursing
explained it as too much coffee;
the Urgent Care team saw us as
incompatible, urging me to stay away.
The abuse, yes, I’m calling you out,
was worth it. I’m convinced.
You tried your best. We were never a perfect match.
My sensitivity. Your aggressiveness.
Perhaps it wasn’t you at all but operator error, your potency
too much for a skinny arm with too many veins. But.
But. There’s the issue of others. You know what I’m talking
about -- on social media.
Those compromising photos with other ladies.
Vilified. I never imagined I’d be one! You know
I’m not anti-anything.
Still, your lingering effects worry me, and though
each day it lessens,
I wish you’d get out of my head.
Just don’t leave me
unvaccinated.
(4-27-2021)
Occhiolism, Breathe Deep
Intelligent design or
coincidence. A grand plan, or things just
work together…
because.
I’m prone and a flat screen anchors to my left. Getty
Images flip by with drone clips
of tony vacation shots of the Riviera
while I wait for my second EKG.
Yachts float on churning, teal
seas, Italian villas stack on cliffs like pale, sun-scorched
barnacles. In crowded coves, people swim. One red inner tube
lazily sails. And
I wonder what life would be like if I were suddenly there,
this moment. Not
that I cherish traveling just now. Are they wearing
masks? Don’t get me thinking
about the hassles surrounding pandemic
continental flight. But, I could be in one of those white villas,
walking those cobbled, twisty streets. Except for staring out
at the sea, I’d probably be doing the same stuff
I do here. I’d eat, maybe go for a walk, read, write, sew, garden. Does
the Riveria even have gardens or simply hire-out? Life
of the wealthy is probably similar to the ennui of
pandemic life. So, what’s the reason, the purpose of it all?
I suppose just to make it work, the best way one can
and imagine (take a deep breath)
being above white-clad backdrop (you’re doing fine)
of sun bleached villas, (are you on blood pressure meds?)
the scent of the sea curling up, toes (don’t talk)
flexing against dirt and rock, arms poised over (deep breaths)
a cliff, and diving
past cool air
into a turquoise sea.
(4-28-2021)