gold and green on vines
summer’s ripe frantic giving
past appreciation
of this heaviness
heaving into sight
desperate for handling
rolling our eyes,
tired of phallic snickers
already
how many times
is something so green
so generous
going to announce itself
in the morning
& demand attention
just like an…
no. I said
I was already tired
of vegetal
erection jokes
In honor of the sheer weight of summer squash just picked from my garden, I have dug this up from April 🙂
the year our garden gave too much
we sold zucchini at the roadside
my father’s farmer friend
drove slowly by our stand, pretending to cry
as we stole his business
& we two (capitalists
disguised as girls)
stuck out our tongues
you must be this tall
to fly
it always rains
during fairtime
to soften dust
and frying oil
you must be this tall
to ride
into scents
blurring in pastels
to tint air
with cotton candy
blooming onions
& caramel apple
this is that line
you cross in a dare, but up
the midway
shuddering
centrifugal force
not drawn where you can
step over it
that leaves us
spun and dazzled
this is a line
we stretch past, standing on toes
to scream
when we flip
upside down
surprise
that is not a surprise
ignore the fine print
and walk away
staggering drunk
on gravity
strap yourself in
taste
how the midway releases us
into reeling brilliance
after dark
once a year we are all children
we can climb sky
for a price
on the Ferris wheel
pointing to how small
people are from here
loop between stars
and popcorn vendors
in timed swoops
of a lit needle
Ahhh–my favorite weed. Thanks, Ashi!
Small dandelions
Growing out of tight stone cracks
As bright as big ones
listening to your monologue
about me as I apply to you,
your definition
of our relationship
floods me with adrenalin, not love
fingers folding to fists
at my side, as I learn
my motivation
is really about you
how I try to make you feel
a supporting character
in your drama, not fully there
just sketched in at the edges
more suggested than formed
of anything substantial
for when you need validation
or vindication
and sometimes sex
the love interest
in your poorly-written play
at living
please, tell me again
how my life is not about me
because that is news
to my breathing
trimming basil
I hum Vivaldi
oboe concerto in C
unimportant which one
except it is fluttering joy
out the window
and now I need to know
exactly which
of his minuets
circles and rests lightly
like that butterfly, there
tasting roses
Susan Daniels Poetry 