Your Eyes, My Breath

You seem surprised
Full of surprises
Words ring
Truth always does

You can feel
Space there
Full of what remains
Unspoken

But keep guessing
Work to figure it out
Wrong, wrong again
So well hidden

Impossible to read
Hiding in plain sight
Many, many stories
Tried to dismiss

There traces
They call you
Draw you in
Come here

Stop staring
Stop hiding
Come here
God damn it!

No? No more women for you?
No more loving, laughter
Hot filthy sex to anger
Neighbors with its volume?

No expectations
Only wishes
We can keep going
Until one of us is dead

Summer approaches
Sheet of white cloud
Strain an impossible sky
Drench the earth

I want
I need
More than anything
To love you



-Copyright C.M. Mounts, April 2017

Scars

I can see others
Get through
They laugh
They have love

If I try hard enough
Hold out long enough
Walk over enough coals
To the other side

This will get better
But in the midst of hell
You have only one desire
And that is to get out of it

Douse the heat with tears
Or alcohol (flammable)
You can step off for a moment
Until the ground shifts

You can’t stand standing
In narrow strips between pits
There is a door on the other side
People seem to make it out

But not everyone.
Some lay down
Some go back
Some stand, perpetual

 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, January 2018

Summer’s End

I can’t really remember
What I have been doing
These past months, years

Maybe it is a mercy
Maybe it is survival
Maybe it is the only way

To get through it
To the other side
To the down time

I guess we all have the option
To not get involved
Close the door, turn on the TV

Shut it out, shut it down, shut it off
20 + 20 + 20 is an hour
To focus that long isn’t that hard

Run ink tracks through the page
Ride rubber into the sunrise
Coffee fueled, driven, driven mad

Long nights, sit in summer
Meditative rhythm of the respirator
Company of paper and sterile gauze

Passersby issue the hairy eyeball
Jaded nurses yearn for retirement
She walks now, I run

If I could get on my bike
Turn back time
No one would see me til September

 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, August 2017

Breaker

Under the surface
Under the film, foam
Is the sea washing rocks
Wearing them away, slowly

To trace a finger along the surface
Is to invite something:
Fear, resistance, or danger
Of acceptance and desire

Those of us who
Dip our hands within
To feel the temperature
Are not sure what to do

When it is fine
Mostly without desire
To disturb the water
Our own rocks weigh heavy

Disrupt, cause undercurrents
Wish to cause no harm
Only to know, be known
But the deep end, no matter

Temptation will swallow whole
Float dead or thrash
Struggle to get out
Only to beg to get back in

Water will have changed
No buoyancy left
Cast out on the rocks
Body broken heart

 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, June 2018

Silent Goodbyes

Walk into your home
Your back to me
Is this really my final
Memory of you, friend?

It isn’t
First time someone got
Wrong impression
It won’t be the last

But can you not see
Past the gate?
Of course you can
I struggle to think

I float home- What is this?
It’s not what I am after
But the connection is real
If unwanted by you

Two decades
Too much a gap
You will deny it
I will accept that

But as you dig in
You fall, you long
You protect
You turn, you lash

Goodbye, would-be lover.
If the distance in time
Between were shorter
Life would be different
 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, September 2017

Ginger

Stir fry fresh onions, garlic, ginger,
Lemon peel in a little peanut oil
Die from the fragrance that
Erupts in your kitchen

It is the smell of love to me
Of friends and family
Coming to dinner at my house
They enjoy the food

I enjoy them
I want to know how they are
I want to know their plans
Their dreams, hopes, challenges

I want to feed them spicy food
That wafts out my window
Makes the neighbors jealous
I want to fill my life

Sauces and spices
Explode my head
Grand delight of living
Fasting satisfaction

 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, June 2018

I See You

I’m on my lunch hour. The sun peaks between the holes in the clouds. A small rain shower, enough to cool and clean the air. Enough to make a little muddy patch of dirt beneath my feet, where I sit on this cement bench beneath the caterpillar tree. Not mud really- wet earth. Roots of the tree are visible in places, some as thick as the smaller limbs overhead. Trees grow roots wide, not deep. Some grow in groves, so they do not fall over in high winds.

***

I arrive in the ICU after work. She is awake. It’s hard to watch her silently scream with the respirator tube in her mouth. Her lungs are not in good shape. She will go under the knife again, get a tracheotomy to attach the respirator to her neck. Increase her comfort levels. She is not out of the woods yet. Her abdomen is split open for access and won’t be sewn shut for months.

She almost died. I can’t talk about it. I always push this stuff off until a later time when I have the space and distance to deal with my grief. For now, someone needs to be present and hold their shit together. There are too many factors pulling me in multiple directions. Time is precious. Writing is painful. It stirs up every sort of horror that my eyes have seen, and my heart has registered, but my face left blank. I have friends and cats and bars. It will have to be enough.

***

It’s evening downtown on a Thursday. The youth are loud, full of anger and angst. School is out for summer and maybe forever for some of them. It is July in the 60’s and there is mist hanging over the fractured energy. The volume makes me tense. An old man says to me as I pass, “Smile, it’s not that bad.” I am transparent, my stress clearly on my face. I look at him kindly and say, “So says you.” I stand in the bus shelter to escape the cold. A teenage girl weeps on the bench and explains to the boy that has come to fetch her, “I’m OK; I was thinking about grandma.”

I wait for the #4 bus. In front of me is a five-story mural of Bob Dylan: three faces, three ages, staring off in kaleidoscope color. I try to find the associations in the schema but I can’t tease it out. The details of his wild curling hair, the wrinkle folded flesh, the wide red stripe splitting his guitar in half- where does the inspiration come from? I am lulled into meditation by the sound of a jazz saxophone street musician. His timbre is calm, and the kids grow quieter and move on.

When the bus stops, I line up but think better of it. Two dollars pulled from my wallet and placed inside his case. I do not look at him. I am worried about the bus and run to board it. As we pull away, I watch him: black man, bright sax, waning sunlight, mirrored glasses, reflected blue light. He looks like jazz- cool, peaceful, vibrating. I smile as we pass him. He plays on. I wonder if his eyes are closed.

 

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, July 2016