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Archive for February, 2017

That Dry Feeling

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 28, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

In his heads, he swirls

the dark loose leaves

of his thoughts,

lets them boil

and steep too long,

then offers the tea

to others to drink,

but it spills before

the tea reaches the cup,

and he fumes,

throws in more leaves.

 

 

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Lots of Honey

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 27, 2017| 7 Comments »

 

 

 

Before she sleeps, my daughter and I

face each other on her pillow,

our heads heavy, our eyes half mast,

 

and in the dim light we recite

“The Owl and the Pussycat”—

the words seem to leap between

 

our breaths so that we can’t tell

where each other’s voice ends or starts,

and I think of the pericardium

 

around the heart, which the Chinese say

is a boundary place that decides

who gets in and who stays out,

 

and I marvel at how, for now,

on this quiet night, our hearts

seem to need not any space apart,

 

and after the owl and the pussycat

dance to the light of the moon, the moon,

we curl into each other’s curves

 

like two parentheses

on the same side of a thought,

like twin silver runsible spoons.

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Sole

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 26, 2017| 1 Comment »

 

 

 

Like a boot takes the shape

of the foot that wears it, I imagine

my hand might come to take the shape

of yours, your hand—something

I was made to hold, made to move with,

made to let go.

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In Room 1224, St. Mary’s

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , on February 26, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

The Mozart Aria fills the hospital room

and Jack closes his eyes and weeps,

his thin neck and shoulders lean

 

into the familiar notes,

then return to stasis

as the soprano rests.

 

It’s the phrasing, he says, the phrasing,

using a hand to meet the crescendo,

then to illustrate the softening phrase.

He, too, is softening, the punch line

whacked off, and what remains

is his thrill in beauty.

 

Just ten minutes ago,

they strapped a purple band

on his wrist, DNR,

 

the same wrist

where so much tenderness,

so much life is pulsing.

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Making Light

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 26, 2017| 1 Comment »

 

 

Fumbling in the dark

with the matchbook

grateful my hands

are experienced

with making flame—

 

part of me fears

using them up

part of me knows

it’s what matches

are for.

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One Set Up

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

before the lines are written

asking the players to go

on stage and shine

 

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One Without Candles

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

power out—

an invitation to fall in love

with darkness

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While leaning over the salsa, Lauren tells me

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 22, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

“Sometimes I draw a straight line

and the other artists tell me

to squiggle it—“

 

all night I re-imagine

our storyline with curves

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Next Chapter

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on February 21, 2017| 4 Comments »

 

 

 

Mom, she says, Stop crying.

She’s embarrassed for me.

 

I can’t stop. After three hours

of snuggling on the green couch,

 

we are nearing the end of our book,

where the silverback gorilla

 

and the baby elephant say goodbye

to the girl who has helped them

 

leave their cages. It is not

the farewell that makes me weep,

 

though that, too, but the way

that the girl and the gorilla

 

share a passion for art. It’s so good,

I say to my girl between sniffs,

 

it’s so rare and so good to find someone

who really understands you.

 

She looks at me as if she will never

comprehend how such a thing

 

could make someone cry.

My tears land on the end of the chapter,

 

leaving a wet trail I don’t

expect her to follow, not yet,

 

her small hand already

pushing on mine to turn the page.

 

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Parched Heart

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on February 20, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

all day the gray scent

of distant rain—

ripe apple just out of reach

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