HOW TO FEEL BETTER ABOUT THE CURRENT STATE OF THE ANTHROPOCENE

put on a pair of glasses

the wrong glasses
maybe large and square
with frames red like beet root
put them on and all at once
the world will be a blur
everything soft and gentle
the knit-quilt-of-a-sky             hematoma heavens
ming-
ling
with
tall
bony
all-embracing

trees                                     who
will mutter to the day
with some soft breath
of wind
will you dance with me
carob
mixing with
cobalt
a carol low as alto
or                 a blot of labor
dancing with a mistress is
tough                                      toiling
a merciless
act of self-sacrifice
hold your pennon hands to the sun
and watch them turn to
shadows
see faces
that aren’t faces
but unfinished oil paintings
colors just mixed
pentimento eyes                           and silent
lips                                         books tongue-tied for
the first time                                 just pages
just paper                          something to hold                  remember and long
for                         it will                be                                         so quiet       so
slow
you will              hear the world move

watch
yourself                                                                          in

               it                .

 

 

 

 


 

 

AN ODE TO SHARED WOMANHOOD

Standing in the women’s bathroom, hands dripping
from washing, only four or five paper towels left
for us all to use. I think, I need a few. But I don’t
know how many single-mothers with screaming
children took more to clean off sticky hands, or old ladies
in patterned shawls who needed to fix
their smudged-pink lips. The fourteen-year-olds who took
a few to stuff in their bras. The grocery-store clerk
who had to wipe her sweaty brow because the manager
touched her again. The college student who scrubbed the coffee
from her white shirt, knowing it wasn’t coming out, knowing
she failed her Intro to Geometry exam, knowing it was
her fault like the boy told her it was– she was drunk after all.
The working mother trying to prove that she could be
a career woman, who shoved a few paper towels in her purse
so that she didn’t have to buy napkins that week.
The little girls in tutus, the divorcees, the let-it-be’s,
the give-me-somes, soccer-moms, the barely-
hanging-ons, the bob-cut-dyed-brown-business-deal makers,
organic-buying-yoga-doers, sweatshirt-and-baggy-pants-
to-hide-the-fat-wearers, the run-aways, the work-all-days,
writers of shitty music who write music anyways, painters of portraits
they wish they saw, the fishers of men, cougars, the pieces of goods,
the baby-mamas, strong-willed feminists, the women
of color, the run-to-lose-weighters, sisters of the over-dosers,
the ball-busters, the leave-before-he’s-finisheders, the mothers
without children, the sluts, the spinsters, the burlesque queens,
the girly-girls, gold-diggers, the prudes– I think of us all.

I think
I might leave without drying my hands.