Who knows.

I'm convinced that my words are sign language and that what I'm hearing is really the wind
and the waves are actually a hurricane of communication.
Who knew?

Steinbeck. (Kino knew.)
Thoreau. He knew the gentle solace that lead to divinity.
Melville knew. He is buried close by.
E.B. White knew. He watched sparrows carry ribbons in their beaks.
Walt Whitman knew. He knew for himself and for us. He knew us.
Elizabeth Bishop knew. The blue eye of that fish.
Donna Tartt knew. She doesn't even live in New England.

I don't know about D.H. Lawrence. That's grey.

O'keefe knew. Her insides were outside and everything flowered once she met the desert and got out of the green that plagues the northeast.
Paul Muldoon knows.
Sherman Alexie knows.
They know themselves and what they are supposed to feel and their sense of heritage. Their respected and respective lands that have tore them apart and built them up.

Bukowski didn't know shit. I think we enjoy (?) his dry rot and wisdom teeth that were never pulled.

Billy Collins knows.
Stanley Kunitz did too.
Marie Howe felt it some.
Sharon Olds didn't know there was anything to know.

Galway Kinnell knew. I never knew about him until recently.
Thanks be to bear.

(Read it: The Bear: http://staff.psc.edu/schneide/Kinnell-TheBear.html)

mom's home.

ii.
we went into the girls locker room and i told them to turn the shower on
but they didn't listen
and i reached in
and cranked it
and i wound up soaking wet.

we were hysterically laughing, even as i dried them off and let myself
out into the parking lot air.
continuing to hiccup as we were driving home
singing a song only made up of the word: "yes."
sometimes I'd throw in a "no" and they'd giggle.

iii.
easy mac,
that's whats going to happen.
can i stir in the cheese?

THIS SHIT IS MADE OF YELLOW PLASTICS
I scrub the macaroni scum from the bowl.

iv.
look how high i can jump
bigger than you,
as high as you are tall.

(but we're holding hands and i'm helping you,
the door slams. mom's home)

v.
put glitter all over your eye?
i am leaving
and i am leaving with the memory of
your eye glittering,
not pink and red sticky jar stuff
but when you fall asleep and your eyelids flicker
and you're so glossed my heart drops
to my bare feet.

vi.
she's a terrycloth model,
pacing the steps with her glowskin
and unbrushed bedtime teeth.

vii.
don't tell mom
the babysitter is.
alive and well
and not an adult secret.

---
There is no "i." because it was absolutely irrelevant. these all go together and a little ditty about french doors didn't make the cut. I have not edited this, nor do I care to at the given time. This summer is going to be about more than survival. Las Truchas, more. More.