A calico purrs,
an auburn cockroach sits satsang
as bats flitter remnant wing dust from a moth I thought was my grandmother.
An eight legged nun preys
by the evening chimes.
My lady birds lay roost on
a fruitless pawpaw
while asparagus and dill
decide if tomorrow be
worthy of sprouting.
A warm man-body
made of life, sleeps.
Breathing in, then out,
beyond a dreaming doubt,
he will rise like the sun.
I used to be good at this-
lying prepared before nights
of gifts and written words,
all ideas for just your smile.
Awake before you,
asleep always after,
my rest in sifting
your hair, my thoughts,
for moments I’d remember.
The kitchen, the couch,
our bed, the smell of
summer nights and
the sound of you home,
the quarters of laundered trust.
Picture you and I,
a rope burning flesh,
a glass of time shattered.
Picture painted fingers dry,
a life creating hurt:
an ocean made of sand.
the burning house blue
from fire not yet set,
and a man made of lonely,
cold snow adrift akimbo legs
shot down by this
hard rain life.
my vinegar mind
traced flames abandon,
no mouse remembers
the him who set no trap,
the dog running at full moon
never looking back.
no cries for the mystery of
a man robbed
even after death
as hushed embers burn to ash,
as souls recluse from
fears made of fire.
‘Twas the last time I saw you
below a December full moon,
stars glowing amid
cracks in the barn,
You, swinging
above still hay
and birds cooing.
You-
a rope twined ’round
your thick neck,
a breath no more fog
on winter nights.
Dear Granny,
I got your name in the middle of mine.
I got your piercing gaze.
I got your thick, curly, uncontrollable hair,
and I got your skills to manage it on rainy days.
I got your Bible, your soft peach neck and pearls,
and Granny, I got your fears.
I got your sweet scent in the morning,
and your blaring existence that is still not silenced in tears.
Granny, I never really got a chance to see you face to face.
I never got to hug you, and tell you that I understand,
that I’ll stand in your place.
I never got to sit and play piano for you,
or sing for you in the dusk of kitchen pain.
I never got to wear your earrings or smell your musk
in the evening after a good mountain rain.
I never got to hold your hand in church,
or console you after a hard day of canning.
I never got to show you what your love made.
But Granny,
I promise I’ll give my baby your name,
and your soft peach neck and pearls.
I’ll give her a piano and the piercing blue gaze
known on the delicate porcelain faces of Coffee girls.
I’ll give her your hands since you gave me mine,
and she’ll play music with them all of the time.
And, when she wants to give up I’ll give her your faith.
Granny, I’ll teach her why we were brought to this place.
I’m sure she’ll get our head of hair and
all of that which holds the amazement our souls bear.
I’ll give her your blaring existence that can never be silenced
even in tears,
even after all these years.
Quiet misery, or visions of
slow motion shattering glass while
biting lips/nails/skin
tapping feet/hands to hurry time
into moments of s&m pleasure.
Breaking rules for
that yelling, pointing finger
of disappointment and guilt,
expectations for a person you will not be,
pink slips and slamming doors,
shredded paper, pencils, erasers,
all portraits of thought.
The art of throwing up tears
for years of fears and wanting to run
into the person you want to be,
the one you are beyond bureaucracy.
He is made of river,
the heaving current constant
of stones immovable,
quicker than reflection,
splashing to pouring
around or over
what is in his way-
prideful bystanders,
once confident,
swear to know
his navigation
and re-route
as sinking dead weight.
Then,
when the broken and jagged
are drowned and forgotten,
he grinds them
with pressure
downstream.
Ashore,
they are keepsakes,
in the pockets of little hands,
hung as chains around necks,
made beautiful.
He is everywhere,
in traces of streams,
the ocean,
my tears,
a sky changing,
a falling grace.
Things are things.
Neither good or bad.
With good comes bad.
With bad comes good.
I am tired of
the falls and flying.
You hear bones crack,
snap goes reality,
as you lie on your back
and a pain gushes, seethes
smoothly around your pride.
You remember why
pain feels good,
and all you can manage
is a nervous laughter
as ego melts,
then crumbles and slides
from your mountain of strength.
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