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

Miriam’s Well

By Mimi German

PORTLAND Oregon—(Weekly Hubris)—15 July 2020—

From “Erotica and Longing During the Plague,” An Ongoing Series of Poems

We

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

what is this place you call earth  

The Aria

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

Inside 

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

Still Life

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.