Regret is a stone

that scrapes skin from shin

So many stones and grass

is never green enough

 

I try and quench the growl with gratitude —

that’s what the monks told me,

rise in the dark and bruise your knees

to sing the songs of discipline

 

I rise to memories of papa singing

bout' the green grass that grows

and men who work on rail roads

 

When I rose my petals fell

down Mother Holle's well --

I want to come back covered in gold

instead of tar, and so far

I cannot seem to say the words

or save a tree

 

Given the gift of choice, I

drown in gulps of salted thoughts

stinging in shades

of blue melancholy —

the word that’s always reminded me of cough drops

and hard candies, like

the caramels in golden wrapping

in my grandma’s crystal bowl

 

Now

her oven is filled with pans

instead of salmon loaf