I am of mixed race, part Choctaw, part White. I am a Breadloafer, won the 2019 New Millennium Award for Poem of the Year and am a finalist in the 2021 Great Midwest Poetry Contest.
So Little Is Possible
You had your reasons, that much was sure. They gathered like a storm. There was lightning, thunder, even wind in the low places while you slid the ring back to me. I watched on the plains. More than the open road that lead away, more than the silly efficiency apartment I took, its layers of silence drilling through me, or women on the street who left me skeptical, jaded, it was the flame in the cave that flickered reaching light to the farthest reaches, dark corners. Imagine a river silty and red, usually at low flow, but of a sudden pulsing in flood, tearing the innocent bank. Now imagine you’re on it, riding the current, passing houses, fields, watching water fold over its folds like a narrative. How can you judge what turns are critical to your oeuvre? As a hazed sky hovers, I see a small girl playing at roadside. I want to stop, bend to her. I want to tell her so much but she won’t understand till she finds out on her own. It’s too late for the night cap or the family pics on the mantel or the year books in the attic to give much solace. So, let’s course on, take the road to the lake, find a sense of humor in the predicament. At one point I thought so much was possible, now I know it’s not so.
Silence Is The Last Word
Did I write that and does it reflect who I am now? Don’t I always teeter between who I was and will be? The car A/C is running as the heat is up again today, my mind resonating with thoughts or are they ideas? Thoughts seem too grand but ideas too meager. I need to make a more precise exploration of the difference but not now, for I still ride this polemic that comes in fulsome gusts seeming to offer so much, then subsides yet comes again keeping me in the swim thinking they’ll lead to other thresholds or new ways to savor her mischievous eyes as she lets go her sports bra as if this time it will count . . . It’s so silly, isn’t it, hoping there’s another world. I’m trapped in this one with this language and the clock winding down: silence, assured, surrounding, is the last word.