Skip to main content

Precious

Mickey’s Bradford is blooming
deep in Central Harlem
deep in the place
where even weeds are named
where precious is knowing who lives here
who is fat with fruit and seed
who died yesterday
who lost the nerve to flower
today - precious
Mickey’s Bradford is brave and blooming
maybe there are no dandelions now
sacrificed to salad – see where
brave got them
monocot clones muscle apart 
the concrete pads
tethering Mickey’s front door
to the pulse of big apple
stealth never sleeps
somewhere a dogwood winter
has wolfed a billion blossoms
casualties noted, precious
but not in Central Harlem
bloom Bradford bloom!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.

Cream on Whiskey

-- Women's March first anniversary 2018 Crone privilege abides here in the steady pour of the Mississippi. Her laughter, belly deep, shadows grackles and gulls, her inconvenience, forever indentured with her shoals, and her easy is fickle, full of silt and minnows. Crone privilege abides here. Out of the modern drudge, we know these truths: Wisdom is love, love is patience, patience takes its time. On the shoulders of old women, it pushes boulders up a hill, Defying the Sisyphean habit – they will roll it up and over, be done with that. Crone privilege abides here. Call us queen bees, a riot of pussies, hand maidens over done. Maya Angelou made her heart into a mantra, now when we straighten our backs, the chrysalis splits wide, and like cream on whiskey              we rise.