The Bucket

the bucket is full
its contents threaten
to overflow
with every step
I have to measure my pace
walk very slowly
it takes hours to
move but an inch

the bucket is heavy
its bottom deep
no point in looking within
its depths are unknowable
the end of its insides
impossible to fathom

the bucket is greedy
never satisfied
its belly swells up
enough to eat
every painful drop
but it has no guts
it cannot digest
any of it

walking along the path
my lopsided yoke and
huge hungry bucket
whose wide open mouth could
swallow the heavens
are pulling down, down
on my right shoulder
listing to the side
like a ship half-sunk
while the captain stands
slant-legged
on the bow
mulling over the specifics
of his duty

a passerby stops to ask me,
What's with you, why
do you lean so far over,
why can't you stop
almost falling down?

and I dip my hands
in the bucket
try to draw out
one single silver droplet
that will explain it
try to choose one molecule
from the ocean
that I'm hauling uphill
but
the more I try to
tease out
one lone care
to be my example
the wider the gaps
of my fingers become
until I am holding nothing
but the span of a canyon
that cannot be bridged

and everything I meant to say
slips back into the bucket
all of a piece
and hoisting the slanted yoke
back up
my shoulder resuming its
shameful ache
I tell them,
Do you see? I
no longer know

Invisible Scars

it's not easy
to carry around
invisible scars
they're too heavy
and translucent
they don't get you anywhere
all the effort is your own
and every bit of it
costly

sometimes I
stand in the shower
and imagine
a long line drawn
down the side of me
pale and puckered
unattractive
something significant,
obvious
something anyone could see
if I were wearing
a bathing suit

it always
makes me smile
seems light as floating ashes,
that long line
which must have cut so deeply
taken so very long to close over
anyone could see
that

the line's there, i can feel it
run my hands over it
like a worry doll
like chalking a headstone
but I have to
forcibly call it into being
call it by name
for anyone else to
notice

and if I don't
they'll never know what
weighted unseen burdens
force me to
stoop my shoulders and
tip my head forward
twitch my mouth a little
as I stand in line
at the bank,

just one more woman
with a basket on her head
ghosts of a troubled past
spilling over the side
weaving around her
like traffic

His Every Breath

The first thing you do when you find out your fifteen-year-old dog has lymphoma is go to Jack in the Box. What you don't do is think about what it will be like when he stops eating. You think only about him eating, because today he's eating, and you honor that with a plain burger, a bacon cheeseburger, and a chicken sandwich. When you get home and hand-feed him the burgers, you don't think about the fact that he needs your help now even in the simplest act of eating. You revel in his appetite. You plan your future days around stopping at the Jack in the Box, you plan on burgers for the rest of his life. 

When he wobbles like a top trying to get to the back door, what you don't think about are all the times he ran past you, fast and jubilant, like the wind on a playful day, without yet any ache or nausea in his body. What you concentrate on instead is the way you know how to pick him up without making his legs jerk and tremble, how you know how to do this for him but no one else does. When you carry him off the porch and both of you are standing in the grass, in the dark, you revel in the sound of his long piss, because he's still able to stand to do it. When he walks out behind the shed, you don't wait for him to become confused in the back of the yard and pace a short lap by the fence where you can't see him. You don't spend that minute worrying that he's collapsed, or mourning his ability to find his way back to the porch. You listen to the sounds of the night birds in the field behind the house, and you revel in the fact that your dog is walking around the yard tonight. When you go out behind the shed to find him, to help him find his way, you don't cringe at the way he nearly falls over after each and every step, you rejoice in the way he seems happy to hear you calling him, even though he's disoriented, and nearly deaf, and dying. You feel your heart change its beat to the tune of his tail. You pick him up in the way that doesn't make him twitch and bring him inside. 

When he goes to the water bowl to drink, you don't think about how it isn't enough, how he'll still need fluids later tonight, how dry his gums still are. You bask in his effort to quench his thirst, and you are grateful for the eight years you spent working at a vet hospital, grateful for your nursing degree and your medical ability, grateful for your boyfriend's employee discount at the same vet hospital now. Most of all, what you don't think about are the days when your big old dog wasn't so big yet, and could still fit under a kitchen chair. You don't think about how he used to trail after you to the mailbox, or how before there was a husband or a child or a second child, there was this dog. You don't think about all the times you were crying and he sidled up so close to your face, saying without saying, I am here for you. You don't dare think about how he has carried you, this big dog with his now-shrinking shoulders, all the long and winding way from your pre-everything youth up until this very minute. And you absolutely don't think about how you will start again, after he's gone, and carry yourself from here to some vague and distant point in a future that will not know him. 

You don't think back, and you don't think forward. You try as hard as you can not to think at all. And when he comes finally to lay down on the rug by the couch, and he puts his head on your foot in almost the same old way, you stay there in the moment with him, you become your most dog-like self, and you reach down your hand to him, moving your foot as little as possible, and you love him. You love so much that it's everywhere, like a mess, and you dissolve into it, as if it's the only real thing, both of you being still and both of you so very here that it's almost like this tiny span of time is the most important thing either one of you have ever felt, the only place either one of you has ever been. And you are as calm as he is, as calm as this creature at your foot, who rests quietly even as cancer consumes his tender insides, calm because you know, you both know, that it's true. This moment together is all that matters, and you're both tucked safely inside it, breathing in each other, breathing out nothing but love. The very scent of the air around you is tinged with it, love. The main thing you do when your dog has lymphoma is revel in his every breath, while he's still breathing. 

In anticipation of next weekend, an open letter to Formula 1 fans

Dear Formula 1 Fans, 

First, allow me to welcome all of you on behalf of my city, and to tell you how pleased we are to have you in our fair town. As a gesture of friendship and civic pride, I would like to humbly offer you my personal support during your stay here. I will gladly provide you with clear and concise directions to anywhere in Austin you wish to go, and encourage you to call me directly if you are in need of navigation. You can reach me using the cell phones you are clearly not afraid to operate while driving in an unfamiliar city. I am well-versed in the layout of our town and I feel this service would be invaluable, as most of you are clearly lost, judging by the way you signal right, slow to a crawl in front of me, and then dart left across three lanes of traffic in order to make a u-turn. I can help you to avoid these needless and dangerous changes in direction.

I’d also like to inform you of a few guidelines for your time in Austin that seem to have been left out of your tourist brochures. I’m certain that many of you are simply blissfully ignorant of these important points, and that surely you cannot all be the dickheads you appear to be, so I’d like to help get you up to speed. First, a bit more respect for our city’s cyclists is called for on your part, and I feel compelled to inform you that these people hold a special place in our city’s heart. The margins you see clearly marked on the sides of our streets are, in fact, bicycle lanes - that is, sections of the street reserved solely for those riding bicycles. Please do not drive in them unless, of course, you’re on a bicycle. Please also refrain from following too closely behind a bike, as this is considered at best very rude, and at worst very dangerous. Lastly, I understand that there are many throughout the country that were saddened and disappointed by the Lance Armstrong scandal, and we as Austinites share your frustration. The man on the bicycle in front of your SUV however, is not in fact Lance Armstrong, and we’d all appreciate it if you would vent your frustrations in a more appropriate fashion and show a tad more restraint than you currently exhibit as you cutoff, tailgate, and near-murder all of our beloved cyclists. 

Another matter that needs addressing involves commuting around Austin, and I am confused and embarrassed that no one has yet mentioned to you that Lamar Boulevard is reserved strictly for residents. This issue is of such importance that it bears repeating: Lamar is for locals, and you are not allowed to drive on it. We will happily give you Mopac and I35, hell you can even take them both home with you, but Lamar is for us. There are several practical reasons for this. First, Lamar is divided into North and South, and as locals we understand this distinction. For visitors, however, this may prove confusing, and here again I reference your ill-timed and poorly executed u-turns. It really is better for all of us if you just take one of the highways. Second, the speed limit on most of Lamar is forty fucking miles per hour, and though there are numerous signs conveying this information, it still doesn’t seem to register as it should. This behavior isn’t limited to out-of-towners, so the fault is not entirely yours, but suffice to say we have enough trouble with this already, and any too-slow or too-fast driving you bring to the table, which is compounded nine times out of ten by the fact that you’re lost and need to call me right away, is too much of a safety hazard, and it’s best if you just leave Lamar to us and use the damn highways. 

Finally, I’d like to offer you all some excellent tips on accommodations while you’re here, or even for the next time you visit Austin. They are all in Fredericksburg and Georgetown. But wait, you may be saying, that’s too far away! To this I would say that if you are so intent on being numerous and pestilent, which you clearly are, you are bound to congest our roadways to the point of calamity, and any traveling you do is going to cost you, as well as us, several hours of time. I say, why not spend those hours pleasantly driving through our beautiful Hill Country, and avoid the city limits of Austin altogether. Some of you may worry that you’d miss out on some of the Austin-y things you’ve heard so much about, but I can put those fears to rest with ease. First, the bats have all gone to Mexico for the winter, and they won’t return until long after you’re gone. Second, the Capitol building looks exactly as it does in pictures, and I’m happy to mail you a postcard of it so you can see it when you get home. Also, doing it that way means you may be spared the possible sighting of a Rick Perry, a misfortune I’m eager to prevent, if I can, for everyone alive everywhere. Third, Kerbey Lane, Magnolia Cafe and Threadgill’s are all overrated and you’ll never get a table anyway. And lastly, Sixth Street is nothing to get worked up about, and I suggest you spare yourselves and the poor pedicab drivers that are hauling you and your champagne-swilling entourage around, and do your slumming somewhere else. I hear New Orleans is nice this time of year. If you take your private jet you can be there in less than two hours. 

In closing, I would like to address the one fact tossed around by many locals as evidence that your presence here is beneficial, and that is the revenue you bring. While we are not ungrateful for this financial gain, I must say that I myself have seen no shred of this revenue, and I have deep-seated fears that though you’re eating and drinking and clogging the streets here, there’s a very real possibility that you’re not tipping your bartenders and cabbies near what they deserve for putting up with you. To alleviate these fears, I propose that all F1 tourists send the residents of Austin a $50 visa gift card each, to be spent as they see fit. You could then choose to drink your Mexican martinis and buy your souvenirs elsewhere. The gift cards can be purchased at any of your run-of-the-mill department stores, such as the Walmart in Killeen, or the Target in Waco. This simple solution would solve many of the problems that crop up when you descend on us like locusts, as well as increase the goodwill of Austinites everywhere, which will smooth over your inevitable return next year. 

Again, I extend our warmest welcomes and call out to you a friendly ‘Howdy,' which is in no way meant to mock you as you appear delighted because you think that people here really say fucking Howdy.

Until next year, 

Deva Haney

ps - I wasn’t kidding about you taking I35 home with you. We’d be so happy to present you with this fine memento that I will personally gift wrap it and will even include a handwritten and heartfelt thank you note from local writer and celebrity Spike Gillespie, though I would suggest that, if you do return next year, you bring 35 back with you so that you can stay the fuck off Lamar next time. 

New Chapbook Now Available!

My second book of poetry, Into The Ropes, is now available for mass consumption! Consisting of 27 poems and a cover designed by the fabulous Ruthie Kee, you can purchase said poetry from yours truly, or from the fine people at either Book People or Malvern Books. You'll be trading $8 for something worth much more - words! Come and get 'em!

That's All

I am standing in line at the CVS. I am about to pay for a pair of sunglasses, two beverages, and two plastic shiny bags filled with peanut butter-related items. I have already paid for the cold medicine because I had to go to the pharmacist to get it. When they ask for my ID, after I request something from behind the counter, I find it a little funny and also a little strange. I wonder briefly if there’s a whole database out there somewhere that is meant for the meth-riddled drug makers of the world but secretly includes only the allergy ridden watery-eyed masses who purchase this kind of shit once a quarter. It seems like a waste, but I forget about it before I’ve even paid my 12.99 and entered my secret code into the machine. I kind of have to sneeze, but hold it because the pharmacist is nice and not full of suspicion, despite carding me for the zyrtec. 

I pick up the other items I need, because right now I need peanut butter and energy drinks, and when I get in line there is one customer ahead of me. It’s a mother. Her two children, one boy and one girl, are in the basket that she’s been using to shop with and roll them around in. The kids are of a pair, with dark liquid eyes and unruly black hair. They are both standing up. I guess them to be about three or four. They aren’t twins, but I’m only partially sure that the boy is the older one. The girl, closest to me, slightly turns and peers at me out of her deep pools. She isn’t shy, exactly, but she doesn’t speak and she doesn’t readily smile back when I smile, shyly, at her. But she doesn’t look away, either. She peers and peers, for two or three seconds, and then turns back to her brother. 

I notice that both of them have stickers all over their arms. Not stickers, but the tiny adhesive scraps that are left over after you peel off all the stickers. Blocks and lines all over their small limbs, all over the cart, all white and no cartoon character within a mile of their basket. I comprehend these kind of stickers on a fundamental level, and I smile at the girl again, when she turns back to me, still not smiling back. The little boy is talking more than the little girl, and they both keep sticking and unsticking the scraps of plastic adhesive that are everywhere.

The mother may or may not speak English. Either way, she says little. When the cashier asks something about donating this or that amount for this or that charity, something we all know full well she’s absolutely required to do, the mother says, "No, that’s all." This phrase gives no perspective as to her native tongue, because absolutely everyone who checks out here says "No, that’s all." 

When the mother’s purchase is complete, I see what she places back into her basket. It’s three puzzle books and one package of sponges. Nothing else, not even a bag to hold her items. The mother isn’t smiling, but that could be for any number of reasons. She could just be keeping quiet because any words she said would be in a language that none of the rest of us speak. It could be because her last fifteen dollars went to her children’s entertainment and cleaning supplies. It could very well be because she’s exhausted. 

When they are finished they leave, and even the little girl doesn’t look back at me as their cart rolls them away and out the automatic sliding door of the CVS. When I go to check out, the cashier, an old cranky woman with a long white braid, whom I am very familiar with, asks if I have a CVS card. Another card, my mind sighs. I would start paying extra for people to stop asking me if I have one of their fucking cards. 

“Because if you do, these sunglasses are buy one get one free,” she says. Part of me thinks, Two pairs of sunglasses for the price of one! Part of me thinks, But these were the only ones I liked. Part of me says, You could keep one and give away another, without any additional financial cost. Part of me says, quite solemnly, You’re buying one pair of sunglasses, Deva, and zero puzzle books. You’ll wake up tomorrow and you won’t find even one misplaced leftover sticker-piece on your pillow, or under your eyelid, or in your car. Just the sunglasses. And then part of me, a smaller part whose voice is growing up all the time, says, It’s been almost four years, Deva, just punch in your fucking secret code and get back in your car and go home and eat peanut butter. 

“No,” I tell the woman with the white braid. “That’s all.” 

Rumble Poem

tired and spent
like the last
dollar
in the pocket
rumble, rumble
shake
just a little
like the hum
of an engine
in neutral
lay low
be a tiny sound
just until
the transmission
is fixed