Posts Tagged ‘conversation’





some flowers bloom

only at night,


so it is with certain conversations,

that open in the dark,


the whole room

blessed with sweetness




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A metal table in the sun. Beyond it, winter.

Two women sit, brought here by rambling.


One woman weeps, tears of mortality.

The other woman rhymes with her.


Everything rhymes eventually, though

neither of them know it yet. The grass.


The snow. The dirt. The way the two women lean

into shadows. It’s not that time makes demands,


it’s just that the women still see themselves

as separate. They grasp at the present,


thinking this makes them a part of it.

Meanwhile, the birds. Meanwhile,


the trees. Meanwhile, the cells, changing.

Meanwhile the sun slides down the sky.


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all day the upright

grand piano dreams of hands

that play sonatas

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—for Rachel



between the cactus,

we walk, our conversation

daring to step wherever it wants

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What if

we spoke

about how

we can’t

speak to

each other,

and by

other, I

mean other

versions of

our selves,

and what

if, as

the words

crashed on

our lips

like ocean

tides that

won’t be

held back,

what if

we realized

that our

speaking about

not speaking

is a

starting shore,

sea water

collecting on

our cheeks.


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the doves in my voice

become ravens

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Speak to me soft
in a voice so low that I lean in,

and speak to me in idioms
of night. Let’s lose any lens

that condemns. Let’s forget
any tongues that speak in

blades or claws. Speak awe.
Speak yes. Speak song. Translate

my fear into tenderness.
Converse in amber.

Converse in ice melt clear.
Speak quietly. Speak near

in tones that I more feel
than hear. Speak broken.

Speak wing. Let’s mislay our will
to judge. Let us be uncaged, untethered,

let us be light, fluent in warmth
in greening, in spring. And let

us be lighter than that. And lighter.
Speak in nothing. In the morning,

let’s give everything away.

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So when I said,
God, sometimes
I am just so tired,
she said, (and it wasn’t
really a she, but it wasn’t
really a he, either),
she said, yeah,
not as if she were going
to change anything
more as if she knew
exactly what I meant.
And then I said,
God, I’m sorry.
I guess you’ve seen
all the bad stuff
I have done.
And she said,
yes, not as if
she thought
I’d been bad, more
as if she believed
I were truly sorry.
And then I said,
though it scared me
to say it, God,
sometimes I don’t
believe in you.
She nodded,
though it were
more like a wave,
like a current,
like a swell
than a nod,
and she said
nothing, as if
she didn’t want
to prove me wrong.

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It sounded,
pass the salt,”
but the subtitles
(I love you
I love you
I love you)


From clay
we came
and today
the ground
reached up
at me
I swear,
as if to say,
“You’re mine,”
and I told
it “Yes, thank you,
but I ain’t done
with this living
just yet.”

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In the middle of the night
mom finds me still awake
and makes us tea. We stand

in her bright kitchen and cradle
our steaming cups. How
the hands like something to do,

even at this quiet hour.
We talk through the scent
of licorice root and chamomile,

we talk with no phones or children,
chores or appointments to interrupt.
She is older than I think she is.

When I’m not with her, I see her
as the mother of my childhood,
her hair not yet gray, her spine

not yet bent. She is lovelier
than I think she is. I don’t
think of my mother as beautiful,

only as my mom. But here,
in this wrinkle of early hours,
she radiates, even as her chin

begins to quiver, even as she bites
her lower lip to stay the tears,
even as her tears miss the steeping tea,

she is radiant. Even as she collapses
her shoulders and laments little things
she can no longer do, she glows,

and I see her not only as my mother,
more fragile than I like to think,
but as someone so full of light, someone

I so very much want to know.

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