in the sweets shop
standing in front of the shelves
unable to choose—
realizing that I am the one
who wants to be chosen
unable to see
the mountain at the end
of the clouded valley—
never once doubting
it is still there
choose me, choose me,
choose me, I say to the world,
but of course I mean
the way I want to be chosen
outside, of course,
preferably in the sun, far
away from all
other eyes, an inchworm takes
all day to measure one lily
all day asking
myself, what would be lighter,
and even lighter
than this, all day I land
who is the one
who thinks she wants to be chosen?
leaning into the
infinite whatever it is
that notices her wanting
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged chosen, inquiry, knowing, poem, poetry, unknowing | 1 Comment »
She has had enough of this tight-assed skinny hipped nonsense,
walking down the street like a rail, like a pole, like a wall.
Wild Rose swings her hips while she saunters.
She moves in curves. She is more swank, more sway everyday.
And she wants some tail. Not a fluffy little scut. Not a prehensile
appendage always grabbing at stuff. She wants a long and slinky
swirl of tail that swings when she walks, and you bet
she will swing it for the pure feline fun of swinging.
She wants to swish it and flick it with the wiggle of her gait.
She’s got fanny and flair and a swagger in her ramble,
and a tail, well she’s been looking for another way to tease
anyone who thinks a girl should play it straight. It rocks it
on her coccyx, and the way she’s feelin’, the road can’t be long enough.
*For those of you who have not met Wild Rose before, she is my alter ego, and does all the things I am too afraid or embarrassed to do.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged alter ego, poem, poetry, tail | 3 Comments »
that elephant over there?
oh, yeah, I like to tell myself
it can fit in my pocket
don’t yell at me
I yell at him—
dead sunflower in the vase
do you think
this elephant in my pocket
makes me look fat?
too hot for my fingers
this piece of steamed carrot so I throw
it in my mouth
just before the snooze
alarm goes off again, a whole
dream in three minutes
I don’t know
if truth becomes visible but
that scar, I pick
it even as I say out loud
stop picking it
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged disillusion, elephant, illusion, poem, poetry | 3 Comments »
for the mothers
Her arms are never empty.
There is perhaps a silence
that holds the space for all this hum,
but she knows it more by faith
than by experience. Sometimes
she sees herself in the window
at night as she moves about the kitchen,
stacking dry dishes and setting out bottles
for morning. She is older now. Less
herself and more something else,
something she cannot name,
though she has stopped believing
in the power of names to contain things.
Sometimes she wonders when she
will disappear from the window.
Already she sees it, how she’s become blur,
as if tears fell on a watercolor, and all
is smudgy and hazy and vague. But
who would want to paint this scene, the making
of sandwiches, the watering of the jade.
It will come, the vanishing. For now,
the armfuls of shirts and socks. For now
the low drone of the dryer as it tumbles,
the occasional clashing of a zipper or buckle.
For now, the milk to put away.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged housework, mother, poem, poetry | 1 Comment »
Nothing, how I love you.
Nothing in my hands and nothing
in my thoughts. Nothing between
my everything to do.
You are not mountain nor desert, not wild
nor tame. You are equally not juicy, not dry.
There is no anger in you, no sorrow.
There is no hunger, no longing, no need.
And still you are more yes than no.
You are entirely, uncompromisingly
Nothing. The nothing that holds up
the everything else.
Nothing, I have visited you. Felt
the ever expanding reach of you,
felt myself as nothing, infinite
and everywhere and I did not want to return.
Until there was the tiniest thought of me
that pulled me back into this world
of pomegranates and rivers and lavender
and loss. Nothing, I love you. You are everything I am not.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged love, nothing, poem, poetry | 2 Comments »
There are no direct flights
from anywhere to here.
Say you make it to Denver.
Say there is a car. Then the long road
though it’s only four turns.
First at the edge where the orchards
meet the layers of desolation, barren, striated and high.
Next at the intersection of depression
and loneliness, where an old
wooden sign with faded red paint announces
that there were once Friday night drag races here.
Turn right at the stoplight of indecision
where it looks uphill no matter which way you go.
It is. If it is summer, there will be lupine,
purple, and golden mules ears in the alpine meadows,
though the peaks will still be secluded in snow.
And if it is winter, there will be tracks
from the elk herds trailing whitely into the spruce.
Pass the turn off toward distraction.
Pass the cliff that was formed around the same time
the dinosaurs went extinct, and then turn left at the drive
just past the ponderosa, how much taller that tree
must be now. There will still be a river waiting for you,
perhaps even a lifetime.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged directions, home, poem, poetry | 2 Comments »
A glove in the road,
there it was, so misshapen
and flattened that at first I mistook it
for a dead bird, black,
run over by countless tires
until its feathers were
and useless as an old single
glove lost on the road.
There was some Once
Upon a Time in it, enough
that I read a whole life story
into the trampled threads.
I imagined how another someone
might peel up the remnants
of that old glove, take it home,
stretch it onto a canvas
and paint it, reclaim it as art.
But I was more filled with the part
of the story in which I walk past The End,
past the black glove, changed who knows how
by this simple trodden thing, finding myself
on the cliff of tears and strangely unable
to stop one foot from moving
in front of the other.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged glove, poem, poetry, story | 1 Comment »