tuesday
on the trail this morning, raindrops cling to feathered grass,
backlit by sun. i am too young to have bursitis
of the hip. as the crossing guard tells it, the coyote took
the little dog from someone’s backyard and carried him,
crying, up into the hills. another war in the headlines
to try to not think about. must buckle down today
and plan fourth book. must decide, once and for all,
if the writing of books is worthwhile. no one complains
the dishes are piling up. no one does the dishes either.
the workshop participants, numbed by a string
of my dementia poems, mistake my love poem for another.
on her back in the windowsill, nony the cat extends
her legs straight up in the air in galloping horse pose.
after the holidays, we need a care conference about your mother,
says the assisted living manager, professional euphemizer,
thereby ruining my holidays. she wants to lock mother
in memory care for refusing to bathe. when all you have
is a straightjacket, everything looks like a nail.
which reminds me, if i stand in front of a mirror,
and there is no male gaze, does it make a sound?
suddenly, i am lost.
interval
one lover the next
mother my mother
human lifespan canine lifespan
calendar time emotional time
sarah palin’s porch russia
musk bezos
musk & bezos everyone else
90210 90220
school shooting range
patient zero seven million plus
covid’s origins light of day.
america democracy
pig chop
koala ash
now too late
tipping point cascade.
broken tail light bullet.
jogging bullet
playing music bullet
orange juice bullet.
skittles bullet.
______________
Claire Jean Kim is a Professor of Political Science and Asian American Studies at University of California, Irvine. Her poems have been published in or are forthcoming from Rising Phoenix Review, Terrain.org, and Tiger Moth.
These poems were selected by Anthropocene Guest Editor Tom Branfoot.
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