living won’t

[an odd way to celebrate life as i enter my 41st year on this planet, but i am quite excited to be thinking more about living than dying these days. so here’s my happy birthday to me. from the yawning empty out of which i’m just now stepping.]

when i die
it no longer matters
what i wear or where
or how i am arranged
fashion my limp limbs
into a signpost
or pulp me
into napkins
float me down
some tepid oklahoma lake
and laugh louder, louder
as i swell
with my own discarding
or create a sacred soil
from my daughter’s slimes
and my old coffee grounds
make up a new ritual
say it’s for me
just bury me and be done
but as you do whatever
with the body i escape
let your openable eyes
roll back in your heads
loll out your tongues
breathe and sweat heavy
grunt and growl
open every door
of your Self
and let it all come
gurgling forth
you pus and pulse
of existence
become more alive
as tribute to
or mockery of
me
honor or defile
my name
chew it to a wad
in your mouth
spit or swallow
just go
and don’t try
to wake me
i’m done

mornings

(a poem about mothering. in honor of my late grandmother, patsy johnson, who made sure i didn’t walk through this life uncovered after my mother passed away.)

mornings,
sunlight is a cruel authority.
my bones whisper one word:
“buckle.”
then the ocean-tide
of your sleeping breath.
the heartbeat of you.
i defy my skeleton’s
seductive stasis.
i move.
it does not matter that this
isn’t joy.
this is the slick-stout medicine
of what is.

mornings,
knees groan, feet swell,
and the warm architecture
of your forehead
instructs me: move.
this is no whimsical aching
in the blood.
no sweet thing.
this is the unquivering jawline
of a million women,
comprising the hand of God.
this, hard and simple.
because you are here,
i move.