124/365

If the Moon Wrote an Ode to Carrots…

 

We tried eating carrots in salad,
moon. We tried eating carrots
plain. We peeled, chilled, serrated,
chopped, steamed, sliced, pureed–
We fed them to horses
with hay.

We tried dipping carrots
in traditional ranch. As recipes
dictate, we grate, pickle, roast,
blanch.

We mixed them with
peas. Serve them blackened
with beans. Julienne them at hostels
in France.

But whenever we bite them,
we just can’t seem
to like them.

So we may not
eat carrots.

Again.

124/365

334/365

I wanted to tell you
the truth.

Dust your ears
with pollen. You would
hardly notice my tiny feet.
My wings, fluttering
lighter than air.

I wanted to sing you
to life. Send
pinwheel dandelion seeds
to dance
across your cheek.

I wanted to breathe you
in and in
and
in again.

None of this melts
your icicle eyes.

You do not notice
my tiny feet. Wings,
lighter than air.

Truth.





334/365

94/365

Traffic


I saw you
walking home late
afternoon. Maybe
after dinner
at
your mother’s.

Looking right.
Then left. Before
crossing to close the last
block.

I wonder, if she served
mashed potatoes.
Your mother.

If she knew
the wind
was not the first, today
to sift your curls.

Kiss
your cheek.





94/365

91/365

No Answer


The package you requested,
cannot be
delivered.

Because the black cat
at the fourth floor
window
is watching. Because the lantern
creaks
and sways. Because the key took
a wrong turn. Because
the address book except
one page was thrown
away. Because the body
and the blood behind
the shed was
everything
you meant to send

instead.





91/365

90/365

What I Love Best About Sundays


Is the perfectly, perfectly
perfectly round,
round, smooth skin, tight
sweet cool
I can roll

on my tongue just to roll,
roll, bite, chew into
pieces of heaven.



Is when you say
One end, stem,
five-tip star
at the other–
Not round.




Is when I say
That may be.

But what
I love best
about Sundays…

are the blueberry, blueberry,
blueberry
kisses

from you.





90/365