Category: Poetry

Stirring Honey Into Peppermint Tea

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“You know I’ve been fixated on the puzzles and denials of mortality for years, and you’ve never been much help,” I tell the Coauthor. A raised eyebrow is the only response I get. We stir honey into our tea.

I lift the cup to my lips, but the Coauthor covers my hand.

“Wait until it’s cold,” she says.

“But I like it warm.” I protest.

Steam curls around our entwined fingers.

*******

Through long stretches of indeterminant time, I sit. Waiting. Sometimes the vulture’s talons. Sometimes the ice of infinity. Visitors are rare, and I like it that way. The Crystal Ball rolls through the room, stops abruptly, and opens its cavernous mouth.

“You’re a liar,” it says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I tell stories. That’s how I breathe.”

*******

Before being overtaken by digital displays, the ticking of the clock meant something. The steady sound was comforting, though on occasion, it disrupted my sleep. But now, I’m awakened by heavy fog rolling in, the enormity of loss crushing everything in its path.

“I want it over now!” My arms are crossed, but my demand is tempered by a tiny sliver of shame.

“Oh good grief,” the Coauthor smiles. “It was over before you started.”

*******

When I speak to the Viral Collective about geraniums and longevity and the bad choices I made last fall, there’s nothing but forgiveness in the air. “We see how hard it is,” they say, stroking my shoulder. Patting my head.

I want none of it. My intentions were pure. I deserve another chance.

“You will not be found innocent,” the Collective says. “The geraniums froze.”

*******

The Artificial Mothers are make-believe virgins, whoring around in contradictory clothes. They pretend to love us as they scatter offerings like stars or candy at parades. But beware: It is the hatching of a million snakes.

Even the wisest mavens end up sidelined, old locomotives cleverly switched to dead-end tracks. Sometimes, when a thug thinks no one is looking, he shoves the Viral Collective off the cliff, and they tumble into The Fiery Lake below. Their wild and joyous gestures suggest the water is fine.

And at least for now, we’re safe. The air is thick with peppermint.

********
















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That Which You Do Not Need Anymore
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments		

			


	

		









I decided I had to tell you something. At first, only 31 words agreed to cooperate, so I lined them up, hoping you’d understand. Here they are:

This is yours.
A day.
Awake.

Sunrise.
Shoes. 
Jacket, scarf. 

Eyes.

Food. 
Teeth.
Mountain.
Music.

Ears.

Lyrics.
Regrets.
Tyranny
of the ordinary.
Sinking
of dreams.

And it’s over.

Sleep. 
Resolve.
Rekindle.

Then I built a fire and baked a distracting dessert. The Coauthors snapped to attention. They stopped their ritual sacrificing, paid the sunk costs of screen time, lifted themselves out of the slung mud, and lined up for cookies. I was generous. In return, they shook loose a few more words. Too late, I told them. Never, they replied. So I accepted the dubious gift.

What We Must Assemble

A coffin, a stuffed animal from the glove box,
the rule of law. A fair trial.

Air. Transfusions. A Dashboard Jesus
assuring us that swords and deadly force are
toxic. Forbidden temptations.

Fresh strawberries from Mexico. Free speech.
Milk and honey for the penetrated little ones.

Hands. Feet clad in good news. Blue
sky. Small gifts. Rare spices. Oil
for the anointing of bodies.

Friends with tears and toast. Gentle
rain to fall on us all. It will fall

on us all. Barns to fill with bitter harvest.
Barns to fill with bones and lies. Barns
where we can hide until they find us.

Wine, cheese, friendly dogs, and laughter.
Thin suits of armor. Small stones.

And that was it. I’ve stuffed my message in a bottle. It’s floating its way to you. There are no angry gods to speak of. Only the still small voices in our heads that plead for mercy and politely ask for shelter and crumbs. You can use all the words you want, the kinder voices tell us. But edit. Remember to edit and then give away that which you don’t need anymore.













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Do-over Day
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments		

			


	

		













                     Do-over Day
       (for my exhausted compatriots)

Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night 
the neighbors lit so many candles 
against the coming storm
that their house burned 
to the ground.

Do-over day.

Some of the children have chosen to fly too close 
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, 
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.

Do-over day.

Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.

Do-over day.

You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close 
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, 
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.

Do-over day.

This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.

Let her rest.