Molecules
–For Danielle, my muse of abundance
Eyes on eyes
I ended with our death
claiming even after
our molecules would combine
holding on to each other for eternity.
By that I mean
as our flesh turns to dust
and is picked up by a seedling
with whom we grow to an aged oak
releasing leaves for near a century-
all the bugs to live inside us
the woodpecker’s groom
the nests to hatch our baby finches
and bees feasting upon Spring’s blooms
By that I mean
after a fallen tree
we leave the physical becoming water
evaporated to join a cloud
traveling all the hemispheres, hearing
the first cracks of thunder
a conductor for electric sparks to travel through
before we plunder together
to the Ocean’s community
By that I mean
after swooshing with whales
we sink to the floor
entering Earth’s core
where pressure turns us to metals-
we shift with plates in patience
moving mountains with our faith
By that I mean
once excavated and shaped
for the fender of a ship shot to space
we escape and latch to solar winds
zipping like zephyrs through our solar system
catching a light show
beyond anything rock-and-roll
By that I mean
combing with our lost loves
our ancestors and the hand
which molded us
we collect and form a new planet-
a speck
in the Big Dark
the blanket of being
By that I mean
we will never lose each other
because together we know
though but a single wick of flame
we create the solid concept
that our love is part of the landscape
which energizes the existence of all.
Stained
–For Shiya Nwanguma, assaulted by members
of the Traditionalist Worker Party
The crusty cap, with watchful prying,
peeled off like a can of sardines. Fumes jet,
hitting my nose with an unrelenting meanness.
Still good. Dipping the sponge brush
into the bubbled deep mahogany stain,
slathering the light colored pine,
the transformation is easy – gentle brushing.
It’s not white to black, more white skin
to brown skin, and the becoming of one.
I see an old white man in a Veteran cap,
shoving a young girl because she’s black.
The onlookers, the ones who didn’t join,
didn’t do anything. Numbness to hatred
like laughing gas – swallows and averted eyes,
holding hands with their wives, a stirring
stirring inside. Does feeling guilt prove guilt?
When hands lain ill, and only crime
colored skin upon exiting womb,
assault is the common term.
Still that stained history.
Still that every day notice.
Still that curiosity how certain attendees
of churches can worship their Jesus,
that miracle black child
born in the Middle East.
Still thinking about these ideologies
as I apply the final clear coat.
Stained
–For Shiya Nwanguma, assaulted by members
of the Traditionalist Worker Party
The crusty cap, with watchful prying,
peeled off like a can of sardines. Fumes jet,
hitting my nose with an unrelenting meanness.
Still good. Dipping the sponge brush
into the bubbled deep mahogany stain,
slathering the light colored pine,
the transformation is easy – gentle brushing.
It’s not white to black, more white skin
to brown skin, and the becoming of one.
I see an old white man in a Veteran cap,
shoving a young girl because she’s black.
The onlookers, the ones who didn’t join,
didn’t do anything. Numbness to hatred
like laughing gas – swallows and averted eyes,
holding hands with their wives, a stirring
stirring inside. Does feeling guilt prove guilt?
When hands lain ill, and only crime
colored skin upon exiting womb,
assault is the common term.
Still that stained history.
Still that every day notice.
Still that curiosity how certain attendees
of churches can worship their Jesus,
that miracle black child
born in the Middle East.
Still thinking about these ideologies
as I apply the final clear coat.
–Maxwell Redder