I remember

my mother

attempting to cultivate interest

In all things green.

I remember trekking

through woods

searching for

dry land fish

or rare wild flowers

with heavy feet and

long dramatic sighs

sitting on rotting logs

as chiggers and ticks

Made me host.

I remember planting a ring

around a bird bath

but losing the interest

and dedication

to water

or weed

And eventually just forgot.

I've killed a cactus.

Not once.

But twice.

After promises that it was

Virtually impossible.

But I'm trying.

The birthday daisies

Aren't dead yet.

And the tomatoes I got

just this week

aren't lonely

or sad a

Or soft yet.

Just need a new bed

To rest their roots.

I'm trying to fertilize

this black thumb of death

into something more productive

now that I have a few more rings

On my own trunk.

Accident

Every time I see lights turning red

I resist the temptation to

speed on through,

hoping that maybe

some unobservant driver

in a hurry

speeds off the line.

As I sit patiently

waiting my turn,

I watch my tiny fiberglass bubble

skidding across the intersection,

wrapping itself around

the steel grill

of some old indestructible carriage,

heavy with time.

I can almost hear

the sound of my own head

smacking against the window,

feel the warm red stickiness

bleeding into my vision.

Its hard not to tempt fate.

Driving fast on those

dark roller coaster rural roads.

Especially in Fall.

Knowing somewhere there is a

many pointed buck

leading his lady across the road.

I find myself wishing to see

the proverbial

"deer in the headlights."

I can almost sense my muscles reacting,

the surge of adrenaline,

swerving at the last second.

A second too late.

I can hear the tires squealing

in protest

against the change of inertia.

Centrifugal force

pinning me to my seat

to watch with

anticipating gleeful horror

an antler or maybe a tree branch

shatter through the windshield.

But I drive on wondering,

what its like

gasping for air

through a punctured windpipe

and choking on your own blood

when no one is around.

Is a mind like this

still under warranty?

My car may have full coverage

but my body does not.

Unless you count a body bag.

Language Barrier

We sit in silence,

me only slightly uncomfortable,

in the palatable air.

Because what do you say

to someone

when you hate small talk,

and that someone's presence

in your life only adds up

to less than a year?

Less than a month.

Maybe less than the hours in the week or

your number of yearbook photos?

Sometimes silence is better

than trying to decipher

broken english,

or staring blankly as they

babble on in native tongues

more eloquent than my own.

Neither of us really trying

to understand the other

because it will be years

or maybe just months

before we meet again.

This silence is golden,

the only unilingual here,

and everyone speaks it

but not frequently,

awkwardly,

and it only softly says

"I'm sorry."

If these walls could talk

would they tell me of the tears

shed from my absence?

Of the longing families feel

for lost daughters?

Would I even be able to understand?

or only nod acknowledgment in

with appropriately cued inflection?