In-digestion

Days filled out to the horizon edges

Ever seeking water, buying bottles of it, disposables

Toilet paper by the ton weight-compostable

and "What’s for dinner?”

Not in that order, in between

laundry loads.

“Do termites eat bamboo?”

He asked me. Seems to be.

The pergola’s slatted skeleton roof 

has become brittle, weathered, withered. 

“Recycling slow,” I finally say,

“We won't have to take it down when we go,”

I looked up to the source of the birdsong,

while he looked down, inspecting
insect droppings.

How he despised any discussion

of death; Post-facto.

While I was preoccupied

making beds, tucking in the corners,

he overlooked the white noise

roar of termites digesting all edges
between inside and out. 

Photo credit: me (Pergola, 2016)

The space of my quiet place

I-in this caged space

Sit hidden, beneath bamboo rods overhead

amidst a lush green crowned atria

I volunteer to sit in the birdcage, with the butterflies and song

perched in the open pergola

I-fall into this open space

In my own backyard, behind the garage, now hidden

even further, behind the black holes of my eyelids.

And I feel the sky, it rumbles discontent when a plane

pushes its way through. A crow objects-to something

while a wren gaily chatters to itself and a mockingbird barks back.

The fountain trickles underneath, like a rushing spring

sounding more than it is.

The steady exchange of footsteps coming

crush the grass and shatter the voluminous silence.

I-give in, open up, and see-this space

and flashing bold colors. The filtered sunlight shows

Leaves prancing over the grey slate stones, that try to compete for my gaze.

Bougainvillea pink paper, peeling skin lays

among the spent honeysuckle bottles. Slowly drained,

looking up to the lattice, it’s a vines race to take over this space-

passion fruit, trumpet, creeper and jasmine-

leaves their perfume trail, in the space we mingle, 

cage door always open.