American Promise

I created this image using AI

I do not want the old America back.

I do not want the old America

where hate simmered

like a hissing tea kettle

ready to blast a whistle

strong enough to tear

a silent house apart.

I do not want the old America

where arrogance celebrated

the genocidal parade

against the indigenous people

from whom we stole this land.

I do not want the old America

where each new wave of immigrants

is viewed as a less than human infestation

to be eradicated.

I do not want the old America

where people climb and stand

upon the backs of others

for greedy profiteering.

I do not want the old America

who will not acknowledge

its past mistakes.

I do not want an arrogant America,

believing freedom and greatness

are measured by the damage

caused when the twins

of cruelty and brutality

are loosed upon the land.

I want an America

who can stand up strong enough

in the face of ignorance, prejudice, and greed

and in truthful wisdom say,

“We had moments of greatness.

Fleeting moments washed away

by fears of weakness and scarcity,

pointless, needless fears.

We will be great by being

the promise we were meant to be.”

This is the America I want to see.

A Visit From The Deer

Image is my own

The deer came to greet me today.
A small hello
before going on their way–
Two does and a fuzzy coated fawn.
The leading doe stared at me,
Assessing me a threat or not.
Her head turned,
her elegant neck stretched toward me,
her eyes softened as she decided—
no need to run away.

Her stare continued.
For a moment, I sinned.
I coveted her innocence,
their understanding of the world,
these mountains here—

Yes, I know,
they know the twins,
cruelty and brutality,
in ways I can never understand.

But I envy their ignorance
of the cruelty and brutality
contained within humanity.

NO MORE. I AM JANE DOE.

Do not whisper the truth

as it would be considered rude—

NO

It is what they expect and say.

Tuck the scars away,

Shove them into the junk drawer.

NOT AGAIN

Politely smile and wave,

Making sure you’ve nothing

To disturb anyone else’s day.

Do not ruin their futures

For it was just a boyish mistake.

EVER FOR ANY GIRL

Stay silent and save

Your future too

That way.

Smile and wave.

Yes, make nice.

OR ANY WOMAN

Do not offend.

Do not be rude

By allowing your scars

To smash and intrude.

Keep subjects to bleached blandness

Of weather, pets, and binge worthy TV.

NO MORE

Do not be rude.

Do not offend

By showing your scars,

Freeing them from the dusty junk drawer.

Stay in smiling silence.

Smiling silence–

NO MORE. I AM JANE DOE

Between Rocks and Hard Places

Image is my own

I read The New York Times–

Rocks and hard places

around the world

children and us

Starving

dying

murdered

between

rocks and hard places—

My face in my hands.

I think of my mother, my father, myself—

we all have lived

between rocks and hard places

from time to time—

But now, now—

It is all rocks,

it is all hard places.

For all.

–It has been raining here

for over a week

unusual

in this high desert.

The rain a result of storms

off the western coast of Mexico.

The mountains, like ancient grandmothers,

shroud themselves in clouds

as if mourning

all of us

caught between

rocks and hard places.

This world–

where a thirteen-year-old boy

says, “I have no one.  I have nothing,”

in answer to the choice

between voluntary departure or a removal order

issued by an immigration judge–

should not contain such rocks and hard places.

This world–

where a diabetic has been cut off

from health insurance programs

and rations out what is left of her insulin

to be able to afford gas to get work and feed her kids–

should not contain such rocks and hard places.

This world–

where a farmer must let his crops rot

since he cannot afford the diesel fuel

to harvest those crops without losing money–

should not contain such rocks and hard places.

This world–

where a young girl’s future

is never considered as important

as that of the man or men

who have brutally assaulted her–

should not contain such rocks and hard places.

I want a world

without

rocks and hard places

for my grandchildren,

for all children–

a world of plenty

of peace

of acceptance–

where no one needs stand upon another

to feel bigger or better,

where no one’s worship

is the only way to worship,

where care for each other

is placed above the dollar—

perhaps not a perfect world,

but a world

where we do not create

rocks and hard places

for people

to live between.

Too Few Seeds

Image is my own
I hold
a handful of pomegranate seeds—
I think of you
 all I know and do not know--

A bushel of grapefruits
arrive at the front door.
The next day, a bushel of oranges 
followed by a bushel of pomegranates,
like tribute foretelling the arrival 
of some dignitary or prince.
Every summer, the bushels 
foreshadowed your visits--
The grapefruits and oranges
for my mother,
who loved all citrus,
a luxury she didn’t have
growing up in West Virginia.
The pomegranates for me--
You knew I loved them.
Why did the bushels and the visits stop
after the summer I turned six?

These seeds I hold,
ready to throw into today’s salad,
are too few—

I remember you—
showing me how to open a pomegranate;
teaching me to count in Greek;
moving a stepstool to the counter
so I could climb and see 
how to make Greek yogurt from scratch,
when you saw my nose wrinkle at the smell,
telling me, “You will like it because you Greek,”
your accent as thick and heavy as the clabbered milk 
in the yogurt glasses.

The last summer you came to visit—
A train ride to Florida 
to stay the whole summer
with you and Aunt Mae.  
I wanted the top bunk in the train car.		
You tucked me into the lower one saying,
“You fall here. No hurt. You fall from up there, you hurt,”
before hefting yourself into the top bunk. 
You said you’d teach me to swim.
“Everybody in Greece swim.  I teach you. You learn easy
because—” you paused, waiting-- 
for my six-year-old excitement to finish, “I’m Greek!”
You tousled my hair then loaded our things in the car.

Everything to be tried, to be learned, to be shown
required our liturgical call and response:
you would start, “You will like because—"
and I would finish, “I’m Greek.”

Teaching me to swim didn’t work out too well—
You told me to move my arms and legs fast,
then threw me into the ocean.
Each time I flailed and sank.
Each time you pulled me up,
“You okay. You learn.”
The third or fourth throw,
You pulled me up
And said, “Enough today.
But you learn because—”
And despite my fearful sobbing,
I finished, “I’m Greek,”
as I wrapped my arms around your neck.
We did not have time.
I never learned.

Sirens, red lights,
dark outside,
Aunt Mae crying.
The hospital cold, noisy.
Mae on the phone.
Mommy coming on the train.

You lived.
Came home.
Peeled me a pomegranate.

Mom and I left on the train.
The last time I saw you, Uncle Pete,
though you did not die until three months
after my high school graduation,
an obituary found on the internet tells me so.
But the bushels, the visits, the phone calls 
stopped the summer I turned six.
I never knew why.
I will never know now.


Fifty-nine years after that summer with you,
I stand holding a handful of pomegranate seeds,
shining their ruby glow.
Decades since last I split open a pomegranate.
Too easy to buy in plastic tubs now.
I need to finish this salad.

But I am stilled in the moment—
The truth I now know—
sleuthing through scraps of internet information
after a DNA test--
What neither of us may have known that one summer,
We were/ are father and daughter.

And these seeds I hold---
They are not enough.

The Stag

image is my own


As I sit at my desk, I watch the does scale the stucco wall.
Their leaps never fail to dazzle.
Next, they stretch their necks to grab and eat the seed pods from the trees. 
Here, in the foothills of the Sandias, this sight wrings a sigh.
Then I see him, outside the wall and to the left, 
watching the does. 
He is large but nearly hidden behind the tall Chamisa waving in the breeze. 
His head would be a prize to any hunter.  
His antlers tall and wide, many pointed. 
He steps away from the cover of the Chamisa.  
What I thought a waving branch— an arrow lodged in his left shoulder.
He is the stag the neighbors have posted about—
The one they say will eventually succumb to the wound.
Reflexively, I rub my own left shoulder 
once frozen still from scar tissue 
until broken loose years ago by a medical procedure
but now occasionally aches. 
How I wish I could help this buck. 
Remove the arrow, apply some healing balm,
Let him recover here, feasting on seed pods, before sending him on his way 
only a scar to ache every once in a while.


Accidental (Anastasia Part I)

(I originally wrote this several years ago, and it was published in my book, “The Gift of Mercy.” I’m drafting a second part to this piece and decided to reblog this as a starter.)

I entered life, an accidental tourist.

My mother’s body served an eviction notice,

but I ignored it and burrowed deeper

into placental warmth.

My twin, however, weaker,

entered the world a clotted, bloody,

gelatinous mess on the white tile

of a bathroom floor.

The doctor told the man,

who wasn’t really my father

but thought himself to be,

there was still a heartbeat,

still a baby left.

I felt the absence of my twin,

the lack of another’s heart

beating a rhythm to match my own,

racing toward emergence, light, life, breath.

A ghost like memory I carried with me

always— even when I, who survived

by claiming squatter’s right

to my mother’s uterus

as it tried to evict me

and who had never been told

of my twin’s existence, would

turn in childhood play and talk

to my twin sister.

My mother asking to whom I talked

and I answering in innocence—my twin sister.

Now, I recognize my mother’s twisting face

of guilt as she turned from my childhood answer:

the long walk from the restaurant’s apartment

to the stores on Broadway to buy school

supplies; the washing down of the restaurant

walls over and over again; the bed rest the doctor

said she needed when she was spotting, her body

threatening to throw out the babies she carried, ignored—

my twin and I, the children of another man,

we had to go.

But I clung, held on—born

the accidental tourist in life,

observing for my twin,

the twin I still feel.

sixty-one years later,

still listening for a heartbeat

in the same rhythm as my own.

Read and Support

Ghost Cells

image_9740e2ab-f2d8-48f1-a95a-6eee4d6d75bc
Image courtesy of Hubspot.com (Katherine J. Wu)

Links to articles that inspired this piece listed at the end.











Time reaches across





cold decades of Decembers,





whispering of you





in me,





of me





in her,





of me





entwined





between





you and her





within those eight days





of December





containing





ghosts of ghost





cells





there dwells





somewhere





inside Time’s touch,





understanding.










https://r.search.yahoo.com/_ylt=Awr48w5gkDRptO4H7YRXNyoA;_ylu=Y29sbwNncTEEcG9zAzEEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3Ny/RV=2/RE=1766262112/RO=10/RU=https%3a%2f%2fwww.theatlantic.com%2fscience%2farchive%2f2024%2f01%2ffetal-maternal-cells-microchimerism%2f676996%2f/RK=2/RS=.hmJ5tDlCRabLTKKHGU._cfCiKE-





https://r.search.yahoo.com/_ylt=Awr48w5gkDRptO4H_4RXNyoA;_ylu=Y29sbwNncTEEcG9zAzcEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3Ny/RV=2/RE=1766262112/RO=10/RU=https%3a%2f%2fwww.newscientist.com%2farticle%2fmg26134751-100-cells-from-other-family-members-live-in-you-and-protect-your-health%2f/RK=2/RS=aeOmCjbh8vLOmKkmucoRm92XlVY-

	


	
	






	
	

		
Dust of a Nation
	


	

		

Right wing demonstrators at Texas State University










winds carried the dusty remains





of a nation across the land










burying bleeding women





in breeding graves





dug by their slave masters





who thought to teach them





of their homespun place





woven in a tapestry





of chains










the remains devoid





of time’s progressive thread





that once contained





something more





than the prison





of being named property