Dragonfly with Crutches

Do you, did you belong to the times
In which you grew up, or to stories

About what was happening to you?
What times exist without tales of them?

Probably not yours. Let’s guess you’re theirs,
Thanks to belonging to their stories.

You and all the stories part of you,
And all the stories that you’re part of.

The big, generational stories
That lump people scattered over years,

Historical stories of events
That shadowed the world during your life.

And the little things like when you went
To get a tattoo with your father

And pushed your way through nos and maybes
And one last-minute cancellation,

To wind up at sunset by the lake,
Getting a small dragonfly design

With a secondary black graphic
Of lean black crutches superimposed

On the insect’s abdomen to wear
On your wrist for the rest of your life.

There Waiting

The phrases started to show,
But then they came to a halt.

Outside a bedroom window
In a small, green mountain town,

Maple leaves, still large and dark,
Moved slightly in sunny air

Against a brilliant blue sky.
In your mind, another scene

Entirely had taken hold—
Dark, flannel-grey, filtering snow

Through deeply wooded evening.
Which scene were you living in?

Neither, you thought to yourself,
I am living in neither.

Blue Murder

My yard has no sun
My porch has no daughter

My sun has no forests
My moon has no father

The left world is closer
The right world is harder

My sun porch is sunless
My shade tree is murder