Alone in my ’76 Mustang, glued to the infectious beat
and enticing lyrics of Radar Love,
my hand slaps the dusty red dashboard.
I am twenty years old and this is a fine summer day.

A splash of salmon atop a dark green shell
is visible a quarter mile down the road.
Turtles move slowly and this one is no exception.

A sanctuary of prairie sage marshland
lies just inches away
alongside this quiet stretch of blacktop.

I wonder
if he can reach safety
before our impending impact.

Nobility, however, gives way to a reluctant curiosity.
Accelerating, I bear down
with only the slightest hesitation,
my trajectory in perfect alignment with his asphalt 20.

A nauseating yet strangely satisfying crunch.

Continuing north, I drive toward town
to pick up a few groceries
for the upcoming 4th of July weekend.

Faded red slippers
rubber soles worn and tattered
comfy nonetheless

I envy the artists
their mastery
of line and shape,
shadow and melody.
Color, language and light.

Trophy words,
aching to secure a place
in human discourse,
that subtly convey
haunting, graceful movements.

Stirrings.

Glimmers.

Words that transcend
the deepest realms
of our truths
the sureness
      swiftness
        security
of thought, cunning in its deceit
crafty in its assignment
tenderly reminiscent
elusive of what is real
      and here
         and now.

The virginal canvas
void and unsullied.
Redolent of pain.

The makings of magic.

My triple-digit
hissy fit,
a relic of generational pride.

Basking in your sculpture garden,
the sequence
of perpendicular tensions
plays out.

Fennel bulbs and laundry
do not justify
your tactile pleasure treks.

Bright lights on iron,
shadows trapped in stone:
the cleansing effects
of your interjected missiles.

Conflicts misunderstood.

Long before craftsmen
sought walnut, cherry and oak
for cribbage boards and magazine racks

Daddy set a match to the unusable cuts
from logs he sawed into planks
and two by fours.

Massive configurations
of bark and knotted scraps
lined the ditch bank.

Massive conflagrations,
my father’s inferno,
burned well into the night.

For years, I avowed the actions
of a six-year-old daughter
who feared the flames

would devour and destroy him.
I tossed the contents
of that little red can onto the pyre,

holding firm in my belief
it held only water
At sixty-one,

is it safe now to confess
I only wanted to see
the fire dance?

Words hurled
onto pages of pristine white,
not unlike chunks
foisted upon a receptacle of
cold gleaming porcelain
late at night,
sick with fever
and nauseous purgings
of what preys upon my brain.

A vomiting of ideas,
stream-spewed consciousness
raw and unfiltered…

Oh, wretch that I am!
How to heave a tidy
sanitized version
from the dregs of my mind
simply because
you say that I must?