Christmas lights went up early this year
(not a whiff of snow, the pines immature)
to ward off nightmares with forced cheer.
To my tongue, honeysuckle tastes fibrous and bitter, like
any common shrub or vine. I only know its sweetness indirectly:
hummingbirds guzzling the nectar like a newborn
her mother’s milk while I sit in the shade and imagine
a branch soaked in honey, my head forced back,
sugar dripping down my throat like a panacea.
I dreamt I was a kelp forest swaying in pitch-
-black waters. Above me moonlight fluttered
like confetti and seagulls roosted on cliff-sides
and buoys. An oil tanker drifted by, the workers
Near-half want me dead.
It was all a joke they said.
Love pulls just ahead.
I’ve been staring at the wall for hours,
wondering why the paint won’t peel off,
what’s holding the plaster together.
My son and I spent weeks assembling
a Lego car, 3,000 bricks of hard plastic
intricately connected to form a whole.
The adults hurry to their cars as the bell rings,
the crossing guard sips his water, takes off his vest:
Today the children will read of warriors and kings…
When you have run out of courage;
when every day is a loaded gun
and your hand is not on the trigger;
when you have given all you have
to give and still disaster looms;
Like the pile of books on my nightstand,
like the ever-falling leaves
in the yard,
my worries accumulate.
Lazy job-stealers,
pet-eaters, storm-profiteers:
Immigrants are Gods.