to write about Glass Tree Frogs, to finish the poem for Gladys and the one for the raccoon and for Malinda Markham :-( This will be my April shower of poeming, I like the way I did the National Poetry Month daily poetry last time and I think that this glass frogs thing has those kind of legs to it. (No web-toed pun intended.) So here I am, checking in with you, my quieter blog, my somewhere-self and promising this kind of writing here and soon.
Tonight in Ohio, the night is being whipped about like a ragdoll and the baritone windchimes that came with our home give the wind a low-sexy voice. The bed is piled with quilt and cat. I am tired and cold enough to look forward to pulling the covers over my arms and turning into and away from that dervishing winter night.
For now, I await a midnight and send it along, time-zone by time-zone, to each of you.
I will tack a little Malinda Markham post-it note to a passing cloud:
The child on the stoop knows what wrong is because it grows
In the body and turns into birds that enter
The outside world and flap their powdery wings
About her face until she can barely
Speak. No wonder she drops things a lot
No wonder the chloroform and slick. No wonder
The flowers learn to grow backwards into the earth
Because it’s safer there and pounding
And fuck the colors are good
I call it gin because I need / a metallic word and my city rings / with drowned and terrible hooves / which pound until I fear they will enter / The outside world but friend they never do / The children are playing with teeth / They have learned to speak like anyone else / At night, at night / They chatter like parrots with no beaks / I go to work and parse everything dry