Erotica & Longing During the Plague
“losing all my leaves soon i will resemble a dead weed it appears that spring is here and yet and yet and yet the seeds earth is dry beyond thirsting her people cruel annihilative and death is airborne my thoughts refuse order and meaning is a lost dog i taste the soil from my fingers to remember where i am and who is the dawn the swing scrapes the air crow is my shadow like bruised fruit to the orchard’s floor even if i asked you cannot walk the cracks of the wadi with me”—By Mimi German
By Mimi German
PORTLAND Oregon—(Weekly Hubris)—15 July 2020—
From “Erotica and Longing During the Plague,” An Ongoing Series of Poems
we were lovers once and then the end of the world happened
A Nest of Twigs
the fabric of clouds has fallen spread itself across the earth disheveled like a worn out flag it catches the dust of yesterdays and a lock of a babydoll’s hair it tangles among the flowering blueberries and buries the tattered orange feather of a flicker squirrel has found the scraps useful for a nest of twigs now there is just this space impenetrable
what is this place you call earth
in the empty bowl a tattered feather from a white crowned pigeon a bead lost from its rosary a shell taken from its sea a lover’s footprint washed away in the sand a broken heart the moan of an old man dying the fading notes of an aria a gray hair blows in from the east a sun sets in a shard of mirror a grafting wind lifts the bowl and tosses it to the ground
The Early Hours
in these early hours i wake so hungry to take you in my mouth to arouse you into day
it is quiet everything is small the fire in the wood stove the night mouse the moon somewhere there is a sun and love i sit with my drink wondering if clouds make sound as they pass through one another like the swish of fish deep in the sea my hands look old the veins more expressive under my thinning skin i am tired but no more linear i am losing weight under this weight it is hard to be hungry anymore to hunger through the scarcity of erased lines tomorrow is a made up word
As They Count the Dead
dawn enters on the outstretched wings of the great blue heron her feathered light casts ribbons of marmalade plums and ripening cherries across the sky blossoms of pears and lemons dapple the waking horizon gentle tides wash away the footprints of fishermen hooking their early morning catch seagulls cry as they open the curtains drawing in the day
the sky is moonlight gray and smells like lemons earth collects from afternoon rain cottonwoods cast the shadows of the lonesome song crow wings into the dark night the pink hearts of apple blossoms dot the trees branches flex the empty pause champagne hellebores bow in resolute respect from an old boot a flower grows no where are the people
Thoughts While Weeding During the Plague
my nails are getting long there’s dirt in them from the garden plant seeds weed my head thoughts of you in the deep sunshine of the plague always there is you found a marble beneath the cali poppies looked like the earth once looked had some blue sea and green land mass running the middle road that was a time tulips open tulips close blossoms beg i beg for you bees come and go or die at your feet quivering forever should always be two words we could have walked to school instead of taking the bus it wasn’t the short bus my love it was the mediocre bus she has potential teachers said this is the garden speaking we are speaking to you the one with potential this is the same dirt they used to bury my father miles and miles of dirt for the dead anybody’s a better poet submitting submission i was submissive with you shy then wild how you opened me the entire self is contained in a seed then blown by the wind into the street and run over by a truck i am your babydoll i ride the train backwards walk the old road dig a trench scratch the earth bend down on my hands and knees smell this earth this soil it’s black purple in the light lay my face on this earth inhale crow caws in the nearby tree he’s interested flaps his wings lands in the scratch looks at me sideways deeper than the soul there was a hole in the ground in the ground in the ground in the
Resembling a Dead Weed
losing all my leaves soon i will resemble a dead weed it appears that spring is here and yet and yet and yet the seeds earth is dry beyond thirsting her people cruel annihilative and death is airborne my thoughts refuse order and meaning is a lost dog i taste the soil from my fingers to remember where i am and who is the dawn the swing scrapes the air crow is my shadow like bruised fruit to the orchard’s floor even if i asked you cannot walk the cracks of the wadi with me
Regarding the image above: To read more about Andrew Wallner’s iconic image of protestors on Portland’s Burnside Bridge, follow this link.
Mimi’s voice is fresh, unique, and important. I love her passion and her creative courage. Her word-craft is dazzlilng. Thank you for publishing these important poems like none others in the world.
Thank you for your comments, Kendall. I value your critique and I’m glad you’re here to read these poems in their new home!
Your poetry is fantastic, just like you: – major truth-telling, brave, not afraid of other people’s opinions, one of a kind, heart wrenching, heart moving, heart aching. out there on the front lines and in the trenches.
Thank you for reading my poetry, Sheila. At this point, I have nothing more to give other than the truth in my poems. There is no time left for anything else. What a terribly sad time this is. And I am aware that my poems are reflective of this time.