Issue #29.11 Four Poems by Sunnylyn Thibodeaux
The Things We Carry
I walk seven blocks uphill with an oil-field duffel bag of dirty laundry to the nearest washeteria. Grumbling about the city’s economics and the slant towards wealth. No car. No service nearer. Economically we are near bottom. Existentially we float Spouse has been sober for thirty-five days. Highlighting a rejuvenation of spirit on this Easter Sunday. I pass the Redemption Church in full worship echo on my way up. Bought a handmade bronze piece from a local artist. Reminded me of an artichoke blossom, reminding me of my mother and her Sicilian tradition honoring St. Joseph with lilies and cookies and penance for all our sins. I pay an extra fee because I carry no cash to my father’s disapproval as he hid his status from the man. I hold the loss of them both in my throat as I string my new piece around my neck. Maybe too bold for my chemo hair. Maybe just right. He called it “Moonflower” because the moon is dead he said, but in that it offers life. On this day of resurrections with nine minutes left in the cycle I pick up a broken wisp of Pampas to bring home, Maybe make something of my own
Bearing Water
I want to tell you run for your life when you share the new comradery in verse, back float starfish, cloud identification – perfect blue, picturesque, formations shift, drift, meet others along the stream. Creeley warned of this in a different way. Play in the halls! Careful of the bonds that form, expectations of loyalty. We're in dark times silenced for disagreement or worse, love. Sharks patrol these waters, swimming or wading in the murky blue could get you noticed, could get you pulled in. Company is a beautiful thing, in the right climate— winter season, spring folly, summer skins. Page by page it is love that unfurls. Something to feed. Dagger in the opposite hand, an unknowing spouse Waters always inviting, but don’t ever turn your back on the ocean some of us lived to learn Angle of shark's teeth makes it treacherous to pull away. Clouds flatten from stacks change shape in the reflection
Isolated Showers
Sky's grey with the threat of anticipated rain. Tap overhead, wisp the five foot sour weed. Beastly charcoal movement with its moisture collection Twelve days till half century mark. Dog days they say, though I've lost track of the stars in this iteration. And I wonder what Lew Welch would say about these critters, these politics, this crisis of climate. For many years I thought I could be the one to find him in the wood since we are kindred spirits, Leos and all. Wondered if his drinking would bother me less since being so enamored by his poetry, the pain maybe making sense, the encouragement I could offer. Precipitation slaps the Blessed Mother cracked at the shins under her robe that I mistakenly tried to freshen my father's sixty-year-old detail. Mildew and bare cement cover the earth where her feet are perched. A lizard on her shelter, invasive species from some other warm place, adapted quickly. Think about planting a tree to find shadow under, watch the birds hop about trying to understand their placement as scenery changes from old to new to old again. Happy Birthday season, dear Leo Being lost is why it all started to begin with. We could read Genesis again, the serenity prayer, farmers almanac. Storm moves on. Mosquito hawks zoom across the St. Augustine grass. There's a single drop still dangling on the lily's blade, pointing downward catching light like a diamond
Mailbox Full
for Duncan McNaughton
I want to say you’re on my mind in all the hours that I cannot call. It’s 2:13 am and some weird wiring of my system woke me. My mind running through a to-do list and on that to-do list is “catch-up” with all the people that I love so that they know that I love them. I want to tell them that I’m struggling with the loss that has piled, but I don’t want to make it about me. I just want connection and to not feel regret when you go. But that is making it about me again. I’m struggling with that part. This shit sucks. Grief and all. Whatever the mess of this complication is. It isn’t cut and dry. But I wouldn’t say all that on a voicemail. I promise. I would just say that I miss you and that you are on my mind. Often. I mean I wouldn’t call often. I’d just let you know I am thinking about you often. But I would call often if you’d like. And if I had time. Time isn’t friendly when you’re trying to grieve. Or just figure shit out. It just keeps going with no regard. And there’re bills past due and a new appointment and some scheduled evening meeting I’m too tired to remember and then it’s like, oh hey when’s the last time you talked to your friend. Oh yeah, I should do that because I want them to know that I love them and because frankly this grieving shit is super lonely, but I don’t want this to be about me. So I wouldn’t ever say that. But really, I love you. That’s all I want to say, but your mailbox is full. I’ll try again. I won’t wait so long. I’ll try again soon I promise. When I get a moment to actually breathe.
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Sunnylyn Thibodeaux is the author of five full length collections of poetry, as well as over a dozen small books including Witch Like Me from the Operating System. She is the mother of a Scorpio and wife of a poet and splits her time between San Francisco and New Orleans. In 2026 City Lights will publish her newest book, Lucky Charms: New and Selected Poems.
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