Turn It Up

For G, on his 11^th birthday

 

my child of extremes,

the volume of your spirit

has never been set to “soft”

 

born of music, dance and song

you carry these in your bones

as they carry you

 

you feel things deeply,

the high notes reverberating

against the lows

 

until there is almost

no difference

in your bodily experience

 

bigger, better, brighter, newer

hold court with

tiny, cute, tender, precious

 

you sneak silently

and cause a deafening din

in equal measure

 

let no one ever (even me)

adjust your dials without consent

never let them turn you down

 

my wish for you:

be exactly who you are,

always

 

but watch out world –

the volume is up

and this one goes to eleven

untitled

I don’t miss

 

the labels I was assigned in highschool

smart – perfect – untouchable

and the result –

separate

 

that guy I definitely shouldn’t have

“not dated” in college

 

those early attempts at birth control

that made abstinence more alluring than sex

 

 

I miss

 

the years before I knew you

what you would take from me

and how long it would take

to recover

 

the garden I tended

more carefully than my own heart

because it was growing

 

 

each spring now I plant more seeds

in soil more fertile

than the year before

 

at least you’ve given me

plenty of compost

 

Boots on the Ground

Oh, are we dropping shoes now?

Well, I’ve got

a seven thousand dollar

knee high

steel toed

platform

combat boot for you.

With spikes.

 

You can have both,

if you like. But

I’ll bet they don’t fit you.

Because I fought for them

and they’re mine.

 

How do you like them

certified organic

just-picked-yesterday

farmers market fresh

crisp juicy

apples?