For The One I Cannot Know

I will save a slither of humanity
for you, my cards held tightly
in my hand.
Do you have any hearts, my love?
I wonder at the gates of your
quivering lips, yearn to know
of the overwhelming tides that
broach upon your waters.
How can I buoy you?

This corybantic life has no end,
we race for a place in this world,
yet our souls have already
outlived the past.
You say that the mystics
won’t allow you to love,
your heart is trapped in
a closet, confined to darkness.
How then will I bring you
to light?

I have given you life in
the oddest of places,
conjured up beauty indescribable
and attached it to your eyes.
To those who don’t know you,
they know you through me.
This isn’t enough, though.
You slit your wrists, cleverly
avoiding consequences like
you’re famous for doing and I
swallow every condolence,
aching from your premature exit.

Oh love, where can I go
to be free of you, the you
I cannot know?
The fox in the woods
hunts for prey.
The bear hibernates, full
from months of gluttony.
The raven caws at dawn.
And I . . .
I burrow myself
in a time that can never
reveal who we are.

The saga always
continues.

The Walk

An Experiment

Jernee, The Little Monster: Becoming familiar with nature. Photo Credit/Tremaine L. Loadholt

nicknames aren’t what most aspire to.
we’re often saddled with descriptions
that lessen our personality,
but “the little Monster” suits Jernee.
on walks, she sets her eyes
curiously on nature’s green gifts,
sniffing out the elite versus the subpar.
she has a system.
I am watchful, yet patient.
I admire her investigative process, her
obsession with marking her territory.

I give her space to explore
crumbled earth between her toes,
the dust settling on her paws
becomes a lickable treat after two miles.
we break for hydration and deep breaths,
neither of us — as young as we feel.
during Winter, the dew-drenched grass
is slick and tricky but doesn’t trip
the quick pace of a four-legged athlete.
she glides through the sea of green
without stopping.

life is less difficult with her around.
the walks we take, they are glue
for pieces of me prone to breaking and
in need of constant repair.
she senses my love for them, for her.
in every step, I witness a pet
who is confident in her role as
caregiver, as companion.

I don’t have to be anyone else.
she gives me space to adapt
whenever adaptation is necessary.
I favor the weekend morning walk.
we stroll and strut and spend
our time wisely.
just us, the wind, God, and the clouds…

and the knowledge of a connection
between a woman and her dog.


My little dog — a heartbeat at my feet. ©Edith Wharton

This is my eleventh year with Jernee by my side. You may hear people say, “I don’t know who rescued who,” but I do know and I can say without one shadow of doubt, that with her — I am much better. With her, I am alive.

The Funny Bone 

Me, an hour ago. I always fall asleep in my chair, with the remote close by and my glasses still planted on my face. The only thing missing is Jernee.

I do not watch much television, but on my days off and at night, you can find me in my big chair, in a relaxing position, watching cartoons or a few movies. I almost always fall asleep before 9:00 pm, telling myself that I’ll just close my eyes for a bit, get a few winks. Tonight… I had to shake myself awake so that I can get my nightly dose of Thera-flu with honey into my system. 

I want to be able to breathe without struggling to do so and this regimen is necessary. Why is the body so leaky? We have too many spaces in which fluids go in or come out and when one is sick, certain fluids are icky. I am looking at you mucous, yeah, you! Ick! Now that I am awake, I am filling myself with a liquid that always helps. It’ll surely give my enemy mucous a run for its money. 

Hey, when you’re sick, there’s gotta be some type of humor shuffling about. The old funny bone has to be tapped a few times if you wanna survive. 

*Taps funny bone*

Ouch!

Under The Weather

A shot from Winter Storm Diego, December 2018.

I am inside, swaddled in my favorite blanket,
lounging in the chair, feeling like death
is coming for me.
What is it about Winter that causes
it to bring the worst cases of sickness with it?
I am Thera-flued, honeyed, and zinced up
to my nose, trying to keep my senses in tact.
Old-Man-Winter is waving his cane
in our faces, cackling at our woes.
He is having fun while our bodies
are betraying us.

First snow, then sleet, then freezing rain
and I think to myself, “make up your mind
already!”
The stillness of my home shocks me.
I am even more quiet than normal
and if I attempt to speak, my voice disappears.

If the blues have come in search of me,
they will find me catering to a stuffy nose,
watery eyes, a sore throat, and painful ears.
I hope they bring good company.
Bad influences are not welcome.