Oh Yeah, and Poems.
Almost forgot!
Cards from the Alabamian Tarot
I. The Storm Shelter
Imminent danger from outside forces. Everyone for themself. Beware spiders, claustrophobia, and illness due to mold. Do not fear the dark. Fear the things you’ll see when the door is ripped from its hinges.
II. The Headless Rattlesnake
Unexpected bravery from father figures. Eyewitness accounts that are different every time. Recall the happy things of childhood: dancing under an oak tree hung with flexible corpses. Things which may not have happened, depending on who’s too embarrassed to say.
III. The Honeysuckle Vine
Sweetness and entrapment. Strike a balance between remembering the past and drowning in it. Time will slow if you remember it drop by drop, but try not to get tangled.
IV. The Foothills
A task harder than it looks. Scrambling through red mud to get a vantage point on an issue that never resolves. Your shoes are about to be ruined.
V. The Firefly Lantern
Trouble hits fast as the shock of mountain lightning on your tongue. A black, wild night when you must be the light for your own path.
Alternatively, watch your ass. It might be glowing.
Eating the mirror
:gnilims reh dnats t’ndluoc I
,odnu ot tuo tes
.su neewteb enap thgil-ragus eht kaerb ot
sdrahs dna sdrahS
,htuom ym morf gnigreme
snobbir der
.spil ym revo gniruop
.srorrim dna ekoms lla s’ti yas yehT
.ekoms ylno s’ti woN
Winter Orange
You:
Thin-skinned, unseasonable,
hard with the effort
to protect your watery heart.
Peeled, you’re all rind-
a second skin, white as an eyeball.
Me:
Voracious, leaping
from a fever dream with hair
on end, throat constricted. My body
is a war of ill-used microbes.
They say you will be good for me.
I strip off your tropical coat,
segment you, your veins
thin as threads from a summer dress.
I split the sac and pluck the seeds, slick
with the promise of Becoming.
Into the trash they go.
I consume. There is no guilt,
but disappointment, the thought
of your summer brothers:
how we lay heavy in the field
with the sound of children nearby,
a delicious secret, my smile bleeding
the color of their sunlight. I suppose
you’ll do for now.
The Museum of Lost Fathers
There are wings that look like attics
heavy with squirrel shit and lost decorations,
Christmas cards shredded up
to stop the drafts between floorboards.
There is a mausoleum,
and a bar,
so we can study the places that ate you.
The places that made you send
too much birthday money,
or too little,
or none at all.
There is a library of phone numbers
that led us nowhere
and all of your favorite books,
which the truly dedicated
spend hours combing for clues
In the back are a few bedrooms
no one talks about.
And the grounds! Those are wonderful.
A patchwork
of the places you left us:
phone booths,
water parks, long apartment hallways
where our ghosts walk,
coltish and wobble-kneed,
gum in their translucent hair.
The fishpond descends full fathom five,
in your honor, and we feed the ducks alone:
vision narrowed to orange beaks
and the sweep of crumbs devoured,
afraid to look away
in case we find you, standing behind us
like nothing is wrong.
Cards from the Alabamian Tarot
I. The Storm Shelter
Imminent danger from outside forces. Everyone for themself. Beware spiders, claustrophobia, and illness due to mold. Do not fear the dark. Fear the things you’ll see when the door is ripped from its hinges.
II. The Headless Rattlesnake
Unexpected bravery from father figures. Eyewitness accounts that are different every time. Recall the happy things of childhood: dancing under an oak tree hung with flexible corpses. Things which may not have happened, depending on who’s too embarrassed to say.
III. The Honeysuckle Vine
Sweetness and entrapment. Strike a balance between remembering the past and drowning in it. Time will slow if you remember it drop by drop, but try not to get tangled.
IV. The Foothills
A task harder than it looks. Scrambling through red mud to get a vantage point on an issue that never resolves. Your shoes are about to be ruined.
V. The Firefly Lantern
Trouble hits fast as the shock of mountain lightning on your tongue. A black, wild night when you must be the light for your own path.
Alternatively, watch your ass. It might be glowing.
Eating the mirror
:gnilims reh dnats t’ndluoc I
,odnu ot tuo tes
.su neewteb enap thgil-ragus eht kaerb ot
sdrahs dna sdrahS
,htuom ym morf gnigreme
snobbir der
.spil ym revo gniruop
.srorrim dna ekoms lla s’ti yas yehT
.ekoms ylno s’ti woN
Winter Orange
You:
Thin-skinned, unseasonable,
hard with the effort
to protect your watery heart.
Peeled, you’re all rind-
a second skin, white as an eyeball.
Me:
Voracious, leaping
from a fever dream with hair
on end, throat constricted. My body
is a war of ill-used microbes.
They say you will be good for me.
I strip off your tropical coat,
segment you, your veins
thin as threads from a summer dress.
I split the sac and pluck the seeds, slick
with the promise of Becoming.
Into the trash they go.
I consume. There is no guilt,
but disappointment, the thought
of your summer brothers:
how we lay heavy in the field
with the sound of children nearby,
a delicious secret, my smile bleeding
the color of their sunlight. I suppose
you’ll do for now.
The Museum of Lost Fathers
There are wings that look like attics
heavy with squirrel shit and lost decorations,
Christmas cards shredded up
to stop the drafts between floorboards.
There is a mausoleum,
and a bar,
so we can study the places that ate you.
The places that made you send
too much birthday money,
or too little,
or none at all.
There is a library of phone numbers
that led us nowhere
and all of your favorite books,
which the truly dedicated
spend hours combing for clues
In the back are a few bedrooms
no one talks about.
And the grounds! Those are wonderful.
A patchwork
of the places you left us:
phone booths,
water parks, long apartment hallways
where our ghosts walk,
coltish and wobble-kneed,
gum in their translucent hair.
The fishpond descends full fathom five,
in your honor, and we feed the ducks alone:
vision narrowed to orange beaks
and the sweep of crumbs devoured,
afraid to look away
in case we find you, standing behind us
like nothing is wrong.