Clothing Giveaway

I pulled on a sweater of an amazing woman

who died.  Hot pink, comfortably broken in.

I liked this color better on Mom, it said.  It’s not

your shade.  Aw, come on.

And her bustline?  So much more forward than yours,

like her great heart.  More.

I’ll wear it anyway, careful to be respectful.

I’m a neutral in training for hot pink.

 

As I placed the pointy elf hat on my head,

a pink chuckle. Yes, wear the hat.  The world needs

more hilarity.

I agree.  And it goes with my hilarious new glasses.

Hmmph.

 

Child, I guarantee you’ll have more gumption with us, the sweater said

begrudgingly. I guess you’ll do.

But Christ, don’t even THINK about wearing

the wild shamrock socks!

 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023

With You

 If we rebirth, do we also

redeath? Let’s consider that

and what meaning it could bring--

 

and what is either but a mirror and passage

to the other, a sly animated

palindrome on acts of life and time?

 

No matter what, I want

to be born anew with you.

I want to die again and again

with always always you.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023

At the Closing

I pick up the worn shovel, handle frosty

and slick.  I feed it to the ground by the mimosa tree

and press hard with my weight on one foot.

The soil yields beautifully.

 

I know very soon, this sacred ground

will receive her of the dark gold hair, the bleached

muzzle, the eyes once alive as obsidian light,

that dog-breath smile.

 

The old girl is shaking this morning

and cannot rise.  I help lift her back end.

Her feet splay out on the floor.  Her eyes are worried,

even afraid.  I caress her bent head

leaning into my leg.  “I know, girl, I know.

Soon.  Will it be today?”  I don’t want to

answer that question yet,

 

but here I am, excavating the ground

between the vegetable garden and my favorite tree,

envisioning motherly soil holding her wasting

frame close, the swirls of her hair trimmed by fallen

 pine needles, her bones and blood that loved us so much

that she will forgive me and forgive me

for bringing that love to a peaceful

close. 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022 

You are in My Circle

To Karl A.

 

You wore your grief unseen like

your skeleton: always there but never

directly in view unless you know the landmarks

to watch for after your true love dies.

 

What was it like, your passing?  Did it quietly ring with

Amazing Grace going on ahead?  Did you lean out

of your body, moving like clouds announcing a storm?

Was it like a math equation, never anything

but fixed and perfect?

 

Wherever and whatever you are, (or perhaps

you are undefinable) I am drawing a circle

of gratitude wide enough to encompass your compassion,

all your great glad works lighting our hearts, and more,

I am drawing the hoops and loops that humble and hold us in unity,

to invite one to kindness, to sow peace in an unpeaceful world,

and to affirm that you are magnificently loved

like numbers love their own square root.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, ⓒ 2022

Thrush in My Hand

Small brown thrush

with injured wings—

the cat brought her in,

such delicate things

 

and as she dies,

oh, how she sings.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2021

East Wind NaPoWriMo #7

        When I go, I want it to be

while the east wind is lowing

through the crack in the bedroom window.

At first, you think that sounds mournful.

 But really, such raw beauty

is quite companionable.

We’ll get along fine,

the east wind and me.  I love the expanse

of his unfathomable music.  He loves

the way I hear.

Listen for me among the fiddling branches

when the east wind roves free,

playing storms on wild November nights.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2020

If Dreams Were Arms

,

Remember how the shape of the air

fit around you?

And the trees, so surprised at

your sterling beauty.

And if dreams were arms

and lips formed air,

I would hold you, singing, forever.

Now you honor a different wind;

skin can’t feel it,

but the heart surely can, and there,

such music that ears can’t bear

to hear.

J. Pratt-Walter

© 2018