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 About Malaika King Albrecht
Malaika King Albrecht’s poems have been or are forthcoming in many literary magazines and anthologies, such as Kakalak: an Anthology of Carolina Poets, Pebble Lake Review, Letters to the World, The Pedestal Magazine, Shampoo, Poemeleon, and New Orleans Review. She has taught creative writing to sexual abuse/assault survivors and to addicts and alcoholics in therapy groups and also is a volunteer poet in local schools. Her manuscript “Spill” has been a finalist in several book contests. She is a co-editor of Redheaded Stepchild, an online magazine that only accepts poems that have been rejected elsewhere. For submission guidelines or to contact her, please visit here: http://www.redheadedmag.com/poetry/ or contact her via http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=99418936.
The Present Moment
My mind is a jar
of muddy water
shaken, not stirred.
 Artwork by Pat Hogan King
my lack of clarity.
I am not the sky
holding the universe.
I am not the ocean
holding the sky. I am
doing nothing, and it’s not
easy to do. See the water
in my cupped hands
emptying itself of me.
Between Housewives
To Debbie and Traci
I can only say this to you two:
today on the way to the vet
I wished that the dog was ill
or old enough to be put down.
Maybe an ex lover was right:
dogs and cats left their planets
so they wouldn’t have to work.
Traci dreams of swimming pools
inside her home. She wants to know
what it means. It’s too predictable.
There’s a shirtless pool guy asking
her to swim. I ask for a rewrite.
Give us all pools.
Debbie e-mails the date of a certain
male poet’s weekend workshop.
Again this year, we won’t be going.
Listen. When we said we wanted it hard
we didn’t mean difficult. Some days
talking on the phone, we promise
each other that when we have blue hair
again on purpose, there’ll be enough red
left to paint our toenails. Then we’ll sling
low on our shoulders matching
pea green duffel bags that say,
We can leave anytime we want.
A Moment’s Awareness
Why not joy when I put on my socks
this morning, simple everyday act-
and yet? The soft creaks here
and there of the wooden floor
as I walk to the kitchen
to pour my coffee, just me
in the pre-dawn’s blue with everything.
The Road is Home
To start a journey we begin
with this moment, a Now
that has just left and is no longer
with this word. Are we on the same page?
“I know where I am,” he once said
“because I’m always, ‘You are Here.’
See the red X on any map.
Wherever I go, there I am.
How can anyone ever be lost?”
Sometimes along the way, the self
becomes a necklace
I’ve forgotten is strung around my neck
or sunglasses I’ve absently
pushed to the top of my head,
and am now asking,
“Where are my sunglasses?”
Neither shore’s visible in the middle
of a long bridge. No one’s getting
any younger. The traffic rolls
in one direction though sometimes I’m alone,
and I’ve forgotten in which direction I’m headed.
I’ve forgotten the traveler visiting this body.
I’ve forgotten about the ragged coat
I borrowed from someone so long ago.
I want to be the same person
who just left through this door years ago
but I’m changing even as I promise,
“Nothing’s different.” If I return, I
won’t be coming back as me.  Artwork by Pat Hogan King
Outside the bay window the pine limbs
bend heavy with ordinary snow. My daughters
tease each other, kick feet
underneath the kitchen table-
the cherry one you refinished
for my wedding present-
where my eldest daughter, practicing cursive,
wrote her name into the fine-grained wood.
With steel wool you sanded
every imperfection smooth,
erased decades of meals.
You sit silent after being fed yogurt
and Ensure, your hands folding
and unfolding a napkin. How quietly
the afternoon changed our backyard;
the curving paths the girls
and I created to the creek and home
all summer long, hidden now
beneath the white drift.
You Have Spoken of Water
The way rain sounds hitting Highway 50
in an August thunderstorm. The way
Willow Creek just before it freezes
smells like winter mint. The way water
tastes after falling down Copper Mountain
and into your hands. The way it feels
to step into a hot spring in winter. The way
Menokin Bay can hold the image of the whole
sky and a single eagle. You have shown me
water, and yet, I thirst.
Ode to Weeds
Barefoot in damp grass beside my garden,
I know I won't weed. Unbidden beauty: wild
violets, strawberries, buttercups, dandelions,
even red clover which means my land's acidic.
Weeds tell soil’s story best: damp, sandy,
dark or dry. Wild potato, dangling
heart-shaped leaves and large bell flowers,
claims tomato stakes, climbs even higher
by grabbing tree limbs. Standing here, I know
some things, despite us, survive, hardy
as fireweed in scorched dirt. I want to know
weeds’ names: wood sorrel, henbit, wild geranium,
not those of annuals that fail to return.
Blue jays drunk on poke berries sing raucous praise
of the unwanted. Weed or wildflower. How quickly
someone’s desire changes what you’re called.
These plants magnificent if you know how to see:
Stop. Kneel. Come this close.
What’s Left Behind
The bonfire a small warmth,
the drums and dancing a decrescendo,
she walks the water’s edge.
Where the waves break the beach,
there are flares of luminosity.
Plankton drift at the mercy
of currents and waves.
Their disturbance, moments
of brilliance in an ocean’s vastness.
Hidden fish leave light trails
in their wake, create
what sailors called the burning
spokes of God’s wheel.
A history of where she’s been,
her footprints glow blue-green.
A boy she used to babysit is dead.
A young man, a car crash.
She’s no closer to anyone today
than she was yesterday. The boy
who died, maybe no further away.
The harder she steps, the more intense
the fluorescence. She runs until each
step is lightning. Without looking,
she knows how quickly behind her,
the dark.
Editor's Note: The paintings showcased in this feature are the work of the poet's mother, Pat Hogan King. The poem "Alzheimer's" - as well as the publication of these paintings - are a tribute to her.
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