daily dredge

© B.A. Stites

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Watercolor - blue no 5

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secret

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“what’s your fascination with birds anyway?”

and if i were to have all the revisions if i were to have them all, as incisions upon my wake    would you ask of me still? would you ask of the feather and dust as to the dead finch, the cherry blossoms covered with rust, and what was left of the apple bounty    rusted and hanging heavy with dew would you, should you inquire, as to the hour    cedar farm posts strung together with wire    fell to the ground, in the grave spun weather    pouring from the mouth of your god wingtip to wingtip in measure, would you steal steam from my wintered lips, from my tethered breast    tree bound and in pleasure ask of me then? to carry you beyond the constellations, beyond the somber    branches and worn roots to these garden stems    and with a motion, a gesture, hold you forever beyond all boundaries of where or when?

[double (poem) post for HQ photo image details - sketched in random typesets using a repeated pattern of poem - B.A. Stites]

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a parenthetical parrot finds a summer mirror

and when i hear your voice when i hear footsteps at my door [how you return to me then!] when i was but a boyish thing no taller than a three-railed fence digging up stones beneath the maples along the copper hayfield edge to catch salamanders, pocket them mind you [were you only with me then!] spotted-yellow, redback, orange speckled and squirming through my hands among the local chorus, dragonfly buzz throughout the wild bayberry hedge [i’d love you, were you to wade the river] and minnow after minnow, silver line darts through the brook-side cattail stems crayfish, boatmen, and bullfrog croaks all along your hiked-dress hems

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easter in the rearview (edited)

i.

everything appears smaller from the passenger side mirror

“i need to talk to you,” you text “it’s important,” followed by my call to preclude some inevitable drama i never intended for since the first instance i showed any sign of being more than another in-affectionate

“i just need to talk to someone who doesn’t judge me” you said an orange halo about your face as you lit the end of your cigarette

there are some histories no classrooms can teach

i knew this to be one of them

ii.

today, they will drive a needle into each of your two arms

a machine on wheels with a pump and hooks for bags to be hung above your head will be responsible for mixing your blood with hemoglobin

what returns to your body will feel cold, will feel like your daughter suffering her own deficiency

there will be more tests, more doctors few guarantees and even fewer answers there will be nothing to focus on, save the hum of the machine ―and the color red

you will ask yourself why, you will want yet another answer, another explanation and returning home after being discharged with your head resting against the window my image will appear ―closer than you’ll likely admit

iii.

when you visit next to share with me the doctors diagnosis, the words from your mouth will feel cold will taste like the sterile hum of a transfusion

i’ll sit still, listening, and reflect over how i am still incapable of loving you

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a restless letter...

even now, with the morning sun nearing the horizon and sleeplessness threading a needle through this tired body, my thoughts lean toward you, as my hand leans upon this paper, and these sketches, these words, were they to reach you, were they to grace your cheek, where i can no longer, a thousand sleepless nights again, would i face. were these words to bring you but one smile one happy thought (per-chance of me) then i would know (with such certainty) i’m yet not lost, yet not castaway and were you and i to ever meet again, how these anxious arms might quicken, how these lips might quiver, to feel again, you beneath me, to feel that violent flash of lightning that first pulled you into these arms, were i a root, were i buried beneath your bone, oh! sweet dampness of earth knotted ruin of my heart, how can i return to sanity when i’ve yet to return from the depths of your mad kiss?

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when you look back at me, when over your shoulder you...

when you look back at me, when over your shoulder you longingly look when that neck twists and your owl-hungry eyes catch mine, when your wherever wandering hand catches my own in its wandering and meeting you there, I beneath you, O! ] —those wandering talons upon my torso and torso to torso, hinged, you and I, two balanced counter weights to a almost broken pendulum, still keeping time, keeping everything but still— and still! [ i can not help but look back, with wandering eyes and wonder in our passing, in this memory of you beneath me, which mouth was mine whose tongue begged inquisitively where, and however we may, might we ever asunder, should we ever wish these tangled limbs and lives undone

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WIP - Prufrock’s Cat

"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.”

(To Be Carved Another Day)

Perhaps when I am etherized enough to finish.

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ilium

“did you sleep” “a bit, you?” “yes, some. arm cramped up a few times. not used to sharing my bed anymore.” i lift my left arm into the air “need to figure out what to do with this again” slide it back under her pillow “here they are” “here are what?” “the scars” she takes my hand and places it on top of her pelvis i run my fingers across the lines of her cesareans, rest it upon the sharp iliac crest of her hip “i like them” “shut up” “no, i do” i throw my right leg over her slide the inner arch of my foot up and down her calf “you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” i explain, “six kids and you still have stems like these” she’s silent “i should probably get my phone respond to all the texts i’ve missed” she slips out of the covers tugs her shirt down around her bare ass and walks around the bed i whistle “shut up” the morning sun cuts through the blinds throwing parallel lines across the linen somewhere a woman is walking into an ocean of indeterminate darkness out of the water, she lifts a shell the size of infants closed fist she holds it to her ear and listens through the bedroom doorway i watch her disappear

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Fiddlers Lake - WY

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Fiddlers Lake - WY

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Shoshone Lake - WY

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Reading Beth Bachmann... Then sleep.