The Woman Who Camped Alone

The drooping
Stars and Stripes,
newspaper-sized,
yellowed by time,
sticks in the Maple,
a reminder
like a note on a fridge.
Perhaps, she recalls
when they sat by the fire,
eyes in magazines,
compatible and content.
Does she pine each time
she pours the coffee
or stirs the stew,
smells
that hint
of Sage?
"Everything
in our life
was spiced
just right."
At night
she lies
tent-less,
head propped up
in the back
of a Subaru,
her face painted
Billy Holiday blue
by the light of a lap-top
she pounds upon,
hopeful,
excited, even,
like an astronaut
ready for take-off
or a Heaven-lusting poet
writing sonnets
to the other side.

Acceptance

He stoops low,
one knee to the ground,
shovels dirt
into a mound
like a grave unsettled,
plump
and black.
He buries bulbs
deep,
explains why
he must stay.
"If I could, I wouldn't,
but I'm needed,"
I listen,
shoot a stare
into the sun.
Inside,
the dying one tries,
but she holds him back
in the living room,
side by side,
an arm's length away,
they live in a dream,
No beginning, no end,
oxygenated and waiting
for this, too, to pass.
She takes his temperature,
blood pressure,
writes it down.
No one will see.
They told her, no use -
it will do no good,
but she's guided by fear.
Outside,
I squint and listen,
his litany drones on
like highway noise.
He feverishly
digs the earth,
and moves his lips
like a salesman
pitching
for the umpteenth time.
Don't you know I see?
I want to tell him,
your Irises will not hide
death,
decorations
to trick the mind from
the truth.
Who is this for?
He is there.
I am here,
and a cross examination
will only further my reputation as
Shit Storm Maker.
So I nod like the doomed - Yes. Yes. Yes.
I feel the sunlight
warm the the lids of my eyes.
They are closed like tombs,
but I think I see the sky.
I do.
I spin to tell him,
but he has turned away,
head down,
lost in the certainty of dirt.
This is his sky,
his ground,
his truth,
and I am
only a visitor.

A Conversation Translated Into a Note

It would be helpful
if you were to leave
because things can get
quite claustrophobic
for me.
My lies are deep,
cavernous,
and your presence
impedes my ability
to out-run
them all.
An upper story,
four-bedrooms
is not enough.
I could use another
floor,
and you do
block my way to the attic -
a wondrous place to slink to
and hide in
Dashiell Hammett shadows.
Ah, to wrap myself in forgetfulness
and smoke a bowl of
nothing-can-touch-me.
You must understand...