yester day
i counted more than 30 species of birds, here
first, i kept a running list in my head
then, i made a google doc to share

and i didn’t even know there was an organized
bird migration count happening
until after the fact /

this morning,
it finally felt
vernal
warm, new air,
a gentle breeze
the exact kind of day to find a fawn nested in the tall grasses around a mulberry or walnut tree
while her mother is off foraging

every one is being born today
every one is dying today

somewhere

it seems //

i can’t remember what it feels like to be a beloved daughter
i can’t remember what it feels like to be a loving daughter

now, repeat those sentences with the word mother instead of daughter

everything is drifting,
has drifted

every thing is being pulled away,
has pulled away

the gravity of me is no longer enough
to hold these familiar bodies in orbit

in a system of we,
in a galaxy of us,

we existed,

only on paper, i think.

but not on kodak paper — you hated photos, and you taught me to hate them too///

today,

on “World Migratory Bird Day”

the May Plow arrived even as every one is

gestating,
laboring,
birthing,
nesting,
laying,

birds, turtles, deer,
chipmunks,
turkeys,
geese and snakes

the timing of these men with their machines is so detached

from the cycle of Earthen life:

mothering,
arriving,
hatching,
latching,
nursing
feeding

raising and rearing.

protecting.

the products of men with their machines are fertilized with phosphate, nitrogen, ammonia, urea
unironically sourced from the Fertile Crescent
shipped via the Strait of Hormuz
because their forefathers, not foremothers, strip-mined the soil of Turtle Island, barren, a hundred years or more, ago

you manifested your destiny !!

so,

happy-and-proud Semiquincentennial,
dear western european Whitey ////

do you know that there are sod
“farmers” (the audacity)
pumping twelve hundred gallons of water per minute
and
burning through thousands of gallons of diesel fuel per week to grow rolls of invasive and needy green lawn — blue fescue, kentucky rye

for your new housing construction subdivision along a fucking golf course that used to be forest or wetlands;

for the Obama Presidential Museum concourse — also along a golf course, which used to be entirely public parkland, which used to be World’s Fair grounds, which used be swampland and dunes and oak scrub and The fucking Lake;

and,

for a golf course — in the fucking desert /////

i buy bags of white and red clover seed
to spot-patch this damned turf grass that i have cursed; i let the violets and dandelions proliferate
and i have fought to restore some prairie for eight years, now

i pee outside in an old Cafe du Monde chicory coffee can behind the barn
and hope
that the occasional coast guard helicopter
or prop-plane doesn’t fly-over too low
mid-stream/
this is immediate and regular fertilizer,
a soil amendment — that i alone supply //////

on this second saturday in May preceding “Mothers’ Day” — “mothers’ day weekend”

there was a quietly-announced local niche seedling sale
an “if you know you know” like it’s a skincare or skims launch

but imma tell every mother and motherfucker i know ///////

and,
hey mom, hey Jessie,

what should i call you, now?

i wanted to tell you
i finally perfected
that creamy garlic salad dressing we loved and craved
from Addison Steakhouse,
or La Villa, or Mr. Steer, our prole tastes

in Chicago, a once-wild, onion field

but you’re not here,
for me to tell,
and you don’t know this poem exists

and you don’t even care to know,

and worse, Jess, you don’t even fucking know to care

[again, how did i come from you?]

that i write/wrote poems
or
prose
or
prose poems.

you manifested,

and you lost every one, everyone, Jess.

and you lost me –

your only child.

so, i will keep looking for a fawn
nested in the grass this

mother’s day weekend

instead of

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