Nothing Happens in Oklahoma

I can cook.
I live in Oklahoma.
I don’t smoke,
or play the piano.

But I lament,
there is no underground in Oklahoma –
only more packed, red dirt
and buried bricks from ancient houses.
There is very little underwater
from which to pluck Antonie-Jean Gros’s hat.

Everything lives on the windy surface in Oklahoma,
perpetually leaving things unsaid and undone.
I ignore the unasked questions prompted by
personality and nail polish.
I ignore the hysterical phone call at 7:45 am
and the frogs that call out, expecting the moon.
I ignore the coffeemaker which gurgles,
“You’re hiding.”

Because the pesto is amazing
and BBC is showing a feature
and Caravaggio is demanding artichokes
and all I feel is hate.

So, I am content without
the underground
or underwater
or the trappings of a normal existence.
I have the right to be different.

I told you it was impossible for me to love you;
You listened and fixed me a drink.
I told you I was dying on the plains of Oklahoma;
You said it was cheaper than dying in Boston.

It is not essential to be a good friend at all times –
days exist when you dislike me.
We are not well-adjusted.
We are not open-minded.
We have trouble comprehending things
outside our faith.

We do not realize that the angels weep for us
as we forget how to love God.
Knowing without doubt that God kills things,
with our very own hands in the red dirt of Oklahoma.