Fight or Flight

                        “This may sound like gibberish to you,

                        but I think I’m in a tragedy.”

                                                --Stranger than Fiction

When he reads that the bus comes to squash the boy,

the hero is ready to face his fate, confront the bus.

He knew he had to die.

He knew his story.

But then some sentimental alien

toys with him, plays deus ex machina

on his ass and heart,

plunges him into comedy.

And they all know he needed to die

for the fiction to work.

They all know saving the boy

and dying in his stead

is the only way to make great art—

his knowing choice to give his life,

his love, his world

to save the innocent.

He rejects the instinct to stay on the curb.

He steps out, pushes the child to safety,

stands in front of the bus,

willing to die a hero’s death.

The audience and author can’t bear it,

insist on a tired happy-ever-after ending

Refuse to fight it. Rewrite. Revise.

They flee greatness in the end.

The Toad and the Beetle

Out of the dark rains

emerges a Sonoran toad.

His skin like an avocado,

dark, dimpled, thick.

Red dots betray its youth.

In the patter of raindrops,

his kind call in the night,

like muted horns of ships

stranded in an ocean of fog.

This toad finds rich feeding

beneath the back porch,

bugs drawn to the dryness,

clamoring to the light.

This buffet of corn bugs,

moths, and roaches suits

the hulking green monster,

until he eyes a dung beetle

big enough to fill him full.

The toad is slow, lumbers

toward this boon. The beetle

is slower, has no idea he’s

about to become Jonah

in the belly of a monster.

One gulp seems sufficient.

The toad swallows him whole.

The beetle wallows in darkness.

A contest of wills ensues.

The beetle breaks free,

bursts from the maw,

sticky from stomach acid,

reeling from noxious slime.

The surprised toad decides

his stomach is bigger

than his eyes, tries again

to consume the beetle

who refuses to be eaten.

The beetle wins a second

and third round in this battle,

tickling the throat, slipping past

clenched lips, falling to the floor,

exhausted, stuck in toxic glue.

The toad contemplates the stillness,

seems willing to call it a draw,

rather than feel scratching claws again.

Still hungry, he flees his nightmare.

Mountain Passes

I weigh each message,

consider fragments and moods,

balance the imperative to

“watch for falling rocks”

against the need to eye

the edges of the winding road.

I see evidence of fallen rocks,

wonder who saw the falling.

The dash flashes eighty degrees,

but signs in July still caution

“Bridge may ice before road.”

I know oracles hedge their bets,

satisfy fate and unearth the proud

with ambiguity.  Sans meteors

and icicles, I dare cross the bridge,

resume the ascent up the steepening

last climb. This final slope

abounded with redundancies—

“Slower traffic keep right,”

“Left lane for passing only.”

Approaching the summit,

I find myself halfway there,

I hug the right, cling to life.

Unsettled Estates

Father died the year

her children hunted

eggs in snow on Easter,

blues and greens bleeding

in melted slush, hidden

in splashes of bluebonnets.

The next winter was warm.

Outside geraniums

bloomed until Christmas,

bugs thrived past New Year’s.

Mandated to bring an end

to this end, she begins

the dismantling of his house,

sorting attic junk,

giving Goodwill the goods,

boxing precious books

for a two-bit fundraiser.

Then, touched by dry leather,

yellowed leaves

and brittle spines,

a daughter reads pages

of ancients, history, philosophy,

and his favorite poetry,

finding one more hair

plucked from his brow

deep in the gutter,

left like a breadcrumb

to his presence.

What if...

What if I actually believed

it was finished when he said it was done?

What if I stopped fussing

about casseroles, seating arrangements,

paychecks or job titles, and attended

the one thing needful?

What if I found a mustard seed

hidden under the piles of doubt,

moved mountains, saw oceans

as reasons for a daily stroll?

What if I stopped defending

myself against attacks,

embraced my enemies without plunging

daggers in their backs?

What if I really did the math

Of forgiveness, learned the grace

that makes one greater than seven

or seventy times seven?

What if I stopped explaining

away my gluttony and greed,

my wrath and wrongheadedness,

accepted my ignorance,

and owned the blessing he called down

when he asked his dad to let them off

because they simply didn’t know

what they were doing.

It was finished when he said it was done.

What if I actually believed him?

Triptych

(after O’Keeffe’s Red Hills and Bones)

 

I.          In the beginning

were grand projects—

light, sky, water, earth.

In groundbreaking moments

after oceans parted and

mountains peaked, then

emerged another operation.

The dust settled,

was shaped, was sculpted,

so much dirt and breath,

a ghostly gasp, then the urge

to ascend jagged peaks,

beckon stars come closer,

settle within easy reach.

II.        One man, one woman,

halfway to sublime,

could not resist 

savoring sweet nectar,

and the fall blooms,

flowers into grace

for want of a savior.

Erosion cut to the bone.

Lines weathered deep,

until piles of sediment,

layers of canyon,

buried the bones,

pressed bone to stone,

made dry souls concrete.

 

III.       Rare rain falls, washes the draws,

exposes roots and tender veins.

This spit makes mud,

creates rivers deep in the gorge.

Red clay cakes on the table below,

awaits the hand to unseal

sealed lids and eyes.

Bones in the valley

rattle like castanets,

sing like reeds

as the spirit fans

the fire within,

rumble low and humble

as flesh fleshes anew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First published in Faraway Nearby, edited by Lon Chaffin.

Gravity

People pretend

science and faith

are at odds

but even Newton, Einstein,

Wittgenstein, Vonnegut

and the Pope

knew the first law

was for Adam, Eve,

and the apple

to fall

at the same

rate

to fall

together

unchanging

until acted

upon

by another.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First appeared in an Interview with Sorina Higgins at Iambic Admonit (June 2010).