aayoungIt’s ordinary…
mundane, absolutely nothing special.
Part of a set that was purchased in the late 80’s
or early nineties would be my guess.
This brown, plastic 1/8 cup scoop
that came to symbolize our every morning
spent sharing coffee
no matter if we were 12 inches
or 1,200 miles apart. We always had coffee.
It is special because he sent it to me
in a care package when I was aching for him.
I still ache for him,
so it’s my coffee scoop until my dying day.
every night you were away
i sought you out
through blackberry bramble ether
from weeping constellations above dixmyth avenue
to jessamine county barns filled with horse hay
perpetually wrapping blue ribbon around my finger
whispering vespers
my plea to the particles of the universe
to hold you together
to bring you back from oblivion
as you had done for me
you are my chosen family
inextricably part
of my thunderous heart
to which you will always hold the latchkey
cupping my hand behind
the meager flame he was
i happily blew him out
how i fucking wish
i had a religion
a guidebook
candles to light
quaint beads with which i could
wrench my hands in fervent prayer
wine and unrisen bread
for a risen christ child
perhaps
at this point i could welcome
a faithful imp or lesser demon
but no
here i sit
with all these science and philosophy classes
in my past
so all i’m left with
is bourbon
and a nagging sense of reason
from the next room you can hear
zz top waiting for the bus
and jesus just left
as she bends at the waist
two shots deep
singly
over her dual sink vanity
chrome swans bringing forth water
at the wave of her hand
mirror caressing bare shoulders
bra burned for the day
barefoot on sage bath mat
spaghetti strap t-shirt remains
she begins to take comfort in her ritual
wiping the war paint from her face
with a warm wet cloth
she applies witch hazel
and an organic hawaiian
monkey torture free moisturizer
bottled at the source
between the muscular thighs
of almost samoan men in grass skirts
she smiles knowing
she’s polishing the brass on the titanic
that wrinkle free faces are mythology
head rising to meets her own gaze
happily
having survived another day
with a poet’s heart beating inside her
