the refusal

an afterthought, maybe too late,
wrapping around fingers-- now tentacles--
sticking to roof of mouth, pink of baby
scalp. Were we really born without
hair?
I did not come in for this, did not
expect this at the cliff's edge.

The weapon of marriage

This is the spear, the tip of sharp
that stabs, that shifts the vine of
intestine. This is the escape you
didn't want, didn't pay 5.99 in shipping
and handling for. A box without a lid,
with no way of closing you in
or out. This is the hot spice of God coming
at you from every direction, pinning
you up against every wall. This is the grip
he uses for the grape-- to squeeze the wine
from the skin.

There are other ways of making people into ghosts

a bucket of paint, poverty,
a picture of Jesus, biographies,
unforgiveness, not paying
the electric bill, the passing
of heat, a sliver in the heart.

Evolution

In the beginning,
God slept and wept
and pushed and
birthed in bloody
birth,
the heavens and
the earth...and
the tree that killed
the Adam and the Eve
in all of us.
And in one final
push and scream,
the afterbirth
of mercy.

today: I'd rather be an Atheist

This may be a bucket of sorrow,
or sorry, that tips and spills
on the counter, on my dress.
even a diamond can't clean
the mess. maybe I feel bitter,
maybe I feel ruined. Guilt turns
on like a fire, but repentance is
the warmth winter beats away.
I'm jealous of people who keep
their hands in their pockets.

I've got you hanging around my neck

the peace that brings the eyelash to
the cheek, to float to the floor... this is
the night the babe was born. And all
the angels sang, or spoke, lightning.
the temperature Mary held in
the womb, was deity, or
the placenta getting ready to push out.
the knee of Christ, the tiny Messianic elbow--
the parts that Mary treasured in her heart.
a king to crown the pocket of creation.

winter comes on strong

There's a split in my hand--
the dried blood seals the chasim
and directs my attention elsewhere..
to my thumb, the way it sticks out
and hitchhikes when I want it to stay
home and read the paper. Paper cuts.
She told me it would rip, if I wasn't
"big enough". Sometimes my body
does not welcome strangers, or lovers..
no matter how wet I am.
I told him this before he left, told him
I could try harder, try to stretch
and open more. I made no promise,
he made no gesture to stay. I can
still see his tire prints in the driveway,
in the snow. I can still see how I
clench my coat around my body,
how I lock heat and myself in.

"First you have a woman and then you have a poet"

The doctor said she would "expand", said it while he washed his hands for the fifth time. She thought of a nuclear bomb...how just before everything explodes into flames, the walls swell and bubble. She watched him lay out his "tools", saw the flourescent light reflect off their edges and spin off into the room. She closed her eyes and saw a lion-- with silver claws slicing thru her solitary tower, releasing a princess from captivity.

The threat has hands,
has thread and needles
that sew and prick
the portrait of peace.
We often go running--
away from, or to, the
window...we toss the
pear out and lean over
to watch it smash and
split.

bone of my bone

I ignore the fever
to write, to admit:
the fall of man,
the panic of orgasim,
the fence I'm straddling.

I have known the thrust
of love-- the way it moves
in and out, the way it ocean's
over me-- my body
is the wave your finger's pulse.

I cannot write, but know, the taste
you leave in me-- the salt that
seasons, the honeycomb wax
that drips deeper in and seals.

Pinned between Your blades

This is not about Abraham
and the way his wrist twisted
and hand shook from
clenching the knife.
This is not about Jonah
or the whale, or the green
vine that withered in the blaze
of sun.
And this is not about the time
Peter denied, Judas committed
suicide, or when Your body
was broken-- like the bread.
This may be about the Babylonian
captivity, or the manna
that fell from the sky, or
when Jezebel was devoured
by dogs. It might be about things
that knock the wind out and hold
the hand with comfort
at the same time.

I spent last night smoking cloves with Billy Moon (aka. Christopher Robin)

The hay fire in my ears,
a taste of handsome on
my tongue-- he never notices
when I stare, or don't.
The sip of smoke in my mouth,
the slip of his hand up
my shirt. The sidewalk is cold
under my jeans; the smoke
keeps my lips warm.
There's a bulb blown on a strand
of Christmas lights on the house
across the street. I point
it out to Billy. He nods and lights
another clove.

and the temple was filled with smoke

there's a bake in the air, a turn
of the table-- the pastel pink of ham,
or a baby's ass, just slapped.
perhaps its my hand. I stuck it out
too far this time, too deep into
the cookie jar-- cracked by the voice
of God. the curve of finger over sin,
the golden hallo around his head-- a pinch
to my ideas of baby Jesus buried in straw.

The 'no' of God

comes like fire-- the sudden
spark on dry leaves, and all
is lost.
pinches like tip of finger
in closet door-- the aftermath
of bruise tells all....showing others,
they nod and sigh
and everyone knows what it means.
knocks out the wind, knocks
on the door-- more like bangs,
and you can't refuse to let
this thief in.
stings, like pouring the wine
on the wound instead of the tongue.

the widow's wheel

With this ribbon, I spin you
up in black, than white-- the day
of night, the movement called belief.
You become the tree in my yard,
the stature of Goliath--I bring you
down to me and grasp the limb
of your love.

the theology of thought

In the thick of collarbone, driving splinter deep into the reprise of foundation, I met a boy made of wood. He lived with a horse of noise, in a castle that shown like a city on a hill. But I am a lightbulb, pale from the retreat of night and white-knuckle days. I believe in the woodpecker-- the tree he pokes and prods from dawn 'til dusk. I enjoy the rethink of Jesus, the awe of omniscience, the revamp of king. I hunt through blue lighted snow, heavy on my heart and soft on my pink boots.

All's fair in love and war

Let us grab the drop down-- the swim
through the waterfall, the deep shelves of books.
You are the milk I never mind warming
with my saucepan hands.
Let us say 'amen' until the voice
is rough and hoarse.

an opportunity to die

I feel the heavy pull-- the drag
towards self, the cling of false ownership.
I watch as I try to gather wood before
the snowstorm--with splintered, bleeding arms,
I surrender not to the sweet death
the blizzard offers. A severe mercy comes
sweeping through the air; a mercy that craves
and licks loss. I should have known at the start
that God wouldn't let this grip live.

the messengers are winds

colored blocks the child stacks are ashes,
ashes, we all fall down.
no more
of these cemetery days,
the blast from nostrils
of the ghost.
we are awake,
substantial.
like Lazerus--unwrap, gasp,
come forward.

I'm afraid you will wound me

Earlier, I hid in my coat. The wool
scraped at my ears, speaking of rough.

There's much to dodge these days;
the flu, the bee and his sting, you.

I confess a fear that snaps bone--
you are a good man, and this
is unfamiliar.

darling, it comes down to this...

I should have told you earlier,
over lunch, that I do enjoy
your company. Even though
the eggs were cold and somewhat
runny-- you were the perfect companion.
And I should also mention that I look
for your walk when in a crowd-- the steady
beat your shoes bang out on tar or tile. I pick
you out and decide to love your feet, your toes.
And, lest I forget, when you wrap your legs
around mine--everytime-- I believe this
is how I am to be captured.

the miss of a mr.

I hate the uncertainty of words--the taste
they leave on fingers and tongue when you're
not looking, not expecting them to matter much.

I fear the missing of you-- the bits of laugh
you leave like pieces of bone in my soup.
I choke; I plot ways to get you back.

I dread the wake away from you-- the scent
of winter wrapping around my toes, bringing
me farther from your Irish eyes-- leaving
me alone with pine and evergreen.

death to self

This is the death everyone
has been talking about-- the break
away from my limbs, torso, volition...
each snap litters more of me on
the ground. I wince and nod an
acceptance; I pretend I know
how to do this, say, "I've been
through this before". I lie
through what are left of my teeth.

I fade for him

Like the belt buckle--
cinch and squeeze the belly,
the breath. Leave no trace of
last week, last night's supper--
the wine, the wooden table, the
soup like sweet and sour.

This is the concern, this is
the same pickle my godmother
couldn't get me out of years ago.

you can break everyone's neck

It just takes time, one
mistake after another, and
soon each bone is snapped--
torn and irreplaceable.

Mary had a little lamb

and I took it to my bed,
took it for my own. Clothed
in white, killed by firelight.
Mary searched her roof, found
the tub empty-- my stomach full,
bloated with wool.

sorry

The rain and I reflect in
light, by the lamp post
in winter, where a Lucy stands
searching. But I'm a Susan--
disbelieving every word, every
time You speak.

long distanced

I'd rather not--
I'd prefer to--
wet my lips and watch
you watch me.
I might turn to you and
say, "pretend this isn't happening."

better for Sodom and Gomorrah

Today the city, tomorrow
the salt-licked woman musing
about dirty dishes in the sink,
and a doormat needing sweeping.
We each have a vice-- the bit of pickle
left floating in the jar, the piece of
kernel caught in teeth-- we pick
and pick and say, "Enough, I like it there."

I am not my own

Release the grip; drop the pen.
The crawl instead of the climb.
A picnic invaded by ants--
be carried, be swallowed whole.

one mile to Jericho

The goodnight;
break of day rubble pinched
between teeth and toes-- rubbed
out, the evening erase.
The six day march
to rest at one-- the blast of
trumpet to bring down walls--
the fortified city skin.
One mile to Jericho--
the relief from 9-5.

Beneath the Vatican

I once had sex with a priest on a pool table. The red, yellow, orange balls kept getting caught under the arch of my back, the backs of my knees. He gashed his head on the dangling green lamp-- a strip of blood down the side of his ear. I stopped kissing his priestly collar.
"No, my child, please continue."
My dress unzipped, I'm not sure how, perhaps it was God.

Before the affair

Before the affair comes
the look-- the drag of eye
across the room, up the face,
over the lips-- the pierce of
possibility under wraps.
Before touch come thoughts--
pitched like tents in mind fields;
escaping like convicts
squeezing through floor cracks.
Before the bed comes
the talk-- not dirty, but clean--
tonguing one word at a time,
filling holes with such sweet dirt.
Before the affair comes
the resolution, "I would never".

This is real-- although I do not know how

They think I invented this--
to have a friend, to feel safe
in the dark. When I talk about
You they nod and humor, thinking
it the same as a child speaks of ghosts.
I cannot explain Your coming
and going; the way You speak and
than You don't. I do not understand
Your new morning mercies,
or the way Your breath leaves no
fog on glass.

Jesus is a lion

He comes from a long
line of sinners: kings with
wandering eyes, brothers
who rape sisters-- they leave
Him to tell the truth.
He was at Jericho's wall,
at the splitting sea of red--
disquised as the trumpet
blast, the wooden staff.
He tears through me-- severing
rotten from ripe, dead
from alive.

People are hit or miss

The bag blowing across the road
didn't signify freedom; you must
have caught this in my eye.

The wedding band didn't keep
you under lock and key, but it
should have. Sunrise comes
slowly when you're sinning.

I confess an attachment. While
you're sleeping with your wife
I'm awake in a twin sized bed.

I could love a woman

gentle, not baby,
but the careful way one
polishes silver. Fork, knife,
spoon with her. In the bathroom,
I'd watch as she lotioned her face--
paying extra care around the eyes.
I'd brush my teeth and spit when
she was looking. When we'd watch tv,
I'd play with her nipples-- pinch,
not so it hurt, but 'til it felt good.
We'd have no need of Romeo;
no use for his sonnets or balcony
climbing. We'd speak poetry over
breakfast and know that the other is,
not compared to, the sun.

Wedding Vows (revised)

We wed, with the moon--
bathing in craters, preserved
like pickles.
Patience, we age like Avacados,
like warm milk in the sauce pan.
We lose our teeth, our hair
in the couch, down the drain.
We drink virtue like delicate,
the whip of cream.
We talk of death and wills,
we speak of our return,
the haunt. We plot
ways to spar with
the exorcist, the shock
of daylight. We save
mothballs in a box,
in the attic, for our
after death deodorant.

blessed are the poor in spirit

I bit
the line you dropped for me--
hook in mouth, you dragged
me West.
You pinned
me beneath the oasis of your belly.
I bore a sand storm
child-- dry stuck to the roof
of it's mouth. I offered up my breast
to the suckling altar. I sat in exhaustion;
you rode off into the sunset.

In the belly of the whale

Today ended as usual.
You came home, I made mashed
potatoes, you were silent
at the table. You asked me
to iron your suit, I licked every
word you said.

I am not
someone at the bar, the dragon
lady on the corner of 31st and Broad.
It's overwhelming in your hand. I fear
I'm beginning to slough off into the
gloves you wear when the weather bites
too hard.

Tendons walk before You

The stiple
of sun on grave; split
between after and life. A
woodpecker knocks on a
maple. No movement. All
are dependent on a call, a command
to come up and out-- from North,
from South. Liquor dries from lip
and palate. New wine drips
from your palm into casket
mouths. Each spill intentional,
eternal.

Things I believe in

the son of perdition
the starfish moon
God is wearing a white coat
dragons
bag ladies
that your feet flake in your socks
dad isn't coming back
the sound the pinata makes when it bursts

My father-- in five parts

Part One

There was the time you came
back from somewhere, newspaper in hand
and you had cupacke crumbs on the front of
your shirt. Vanilla fuzz balls-- they
made me hungry, they made me lick.
They made mom pissed. We left shortly
after that. I thought-- food can make
people pack and leave for good.

Part Two

We had to visit you every other
weekend-- even the phrase is difficult to say,
those e's, and the y that sounds like an e, and
that o all by itself. There were daddy long legs
in the bathroom sink. Their dab of body
sitting on the faucet, watching as I used
the toilet. I felt shy by myself.

Part Three

I was six the day I crossed
the street without your permission.
I wandered into neighbor's yards, into
the swimming pool of someone
I didn't know (I was brave at that age).
I found construction workers
on their lunch break. They offered me
macaroni salad, they asked why
my clothes were wet--I told about
the pool, they said I was a funny one.
I heard you call my name. I ran home, afraid.
You yelled. Why was I wet? You told me
to change my clothes and then you would
spank me (You never did like getting dirty).
I took my time pulling off my soggy shorts.
I tip-toed into the living room, you had fallen
asleep in your chair. I curled up on the couch
in mom's afgan, and watched you snoring. Later, you woke
me and asked if I wanted a tuna fish sandwich for
supper. You had forgotten about the pool, my wet
clothes, the spanking. I thought-- things can
be erased.

Part Four

Mountain Dew was your favorite, you
would get mad at us if we drank the last
of it. One April fool's day, the boys and I
put jelly beans in your glass when you
weren't in the room. We watched as the
blues and oranges and pinks dissolved
in the green fizz, watched as you took a
gulp and saw the candied blobs floating
at the bottom. We all yelled, April Fools!
You didn't laugh. You yelled and made
us get you a new glass. I learned that
parents don't get jokes.

Part Five

You smoked Marlboro reds. You always
carried a soft pack in your shirt pocket.
When I would climb into your lap to
cuddle, I would lay my head on your chest
and smell your pocket. It smelled like
raisins. One time when no one was around,
I took an old cigarette from the ash tray,
pressed it to my lips and sucked. It tasted like
dirt. I wondered where you kept the
raisin ones and if you would share
them with me when I was older.

The laugh of God

Your laugh is as the deep
groove of teeth, the fire
in the summer sand pit.
Not bowls filled with jelly,
but buckets, namely, chalk
full of cherries, hands, and
paper dolls. Each chuckle
a puff and a heavy blow--
to the face, to the jaw--
a massive pin up against a wall,
or a fall in a dream where you wake up
before you hit. Your laugh
is the cup with a crack in the rim,
a dribble slipping out each sip.

The slice of orange
on the counter,
shriveled--a crust
of fruit. Label the vine,
dip into the criticism
of citrus, the taunt
of tangerine. We all
have taste buds we
want to tame.

flashback

You once told me
it was possible to be scared
to death. (We were in a bar--
salt rimmed glasses, green appled
tongues.) I laughed. I watched
you put on your white coat, watched
as you fingered the buttons into
their holes. We walked home, made tea.
I laid in bed, told you it was true--what
you said in the bar. Told you I was scared;
you asked me what of, I said I didn't know.
You kissed my sea salt lips; I cried in your mouth.

He parted with pink lips--
but pink licks and strips the
bone, the belt buckle and below.
He bit with jagged
teeth-- like weather torn shingles.
His pin stripped pants of betrayal
lay on the floor. He eyed the door,
the telephone, my sagging breasts.
He labeled me velcro; said
I should let go. But he was the one
that stayed, that slept
with his mouth open, that used
my slippers when he walked
to the bathroom.

A solid lover

You want to love me--
by day, by the rubble
of Jericho, sweet beneath
the tower of Babel. You
sit in my covered boots,
my covered wagon teeth,
believing I'll come
home, that I'll leave
the rough city
life, the straw, the pig's
pods. You call
me the whitewashed woman.
You think of me when
You bleach the curtains, the floor,
an entire continent.
You see me as Rahab--
You're waiting
for me to dangle the scarlet
rope from my window.

empezar

It might have been at the circus.
Your mouth stuffed with popcorn--
an orange kernel flake stuck between two teeth,
the clown with the red flower that
refused to spray, the acrobats that lay--
that spin like toy tops on linoleum.
I fell in love with the
lions that yawn, the
tigers and the juggling bear.
It might have begun there. Or maybe
it was at the drug store--when we
bought your mother that card
the one with yellow flowers on the
front and the inside that read
You're special. It might have been
at the dinner table, over the daisies, over
deviled eggs, over two spoons. Perhaps
that was when I swooned. Or it may
have happened in the theater, at the bar,
in the car-- with the coconut air freshener dangling
from the mirror.
Honestly, dear, I can't remember where;
either way, I'm almost certain,
there were flowers there.

call a spade a spade

Believe me, you'll never
get her that way. She likes
it dirty-- call her a tramp,
steal her purse, write on her
thighs with lipstick while
she's sleeping. Take off the
tuxedo, drop the accent--
she can't speak the language.

My fault

It comes out all over
the place-- in the store,
in church--it pinches through
doors and vows. It leaves
people hanging, the drip of
death on their face, the stab of vicious
in their back. How do you hide
your ripped underwear,
your wife's lingerie?

She used to talk about grace

Mother used to talk about grace
as if it were soap in the sink, the longest
piece of licorice, a thimble. She said
it never went hungry. She talked
about it when she was angry, she
said that was when it wanted
to come out. I thought it a monster
that would eat the whole house,
I use to pray it would pass over me.
She said it hid in things and would
surprise. I checked under my bed,
checked my shoes,
held my belly-- found nothing
in the cracks, in the space. I thought
her crazy. She used to talk about
grace like hand-me-downs, like
east and west, like buckets
of wine in the basement.
I saw it as a washcloth, on the
clothesline-- occasionally dripping,
fading in the sun.

weaved by flaming tongues above.

We twine like twigs
in a basket, in fire.
Smoke framing every
movement-- roping around
our eyes, lips-- each
sip of faith. I limp, You carry
my limbs in the order
I surrender them
to the flames. We speak
of moon more than morning--
preparing for chapped winter
freezing the tip
of tongue, the rind of repentance.

What I read between the lines

It was too stiff, too chalky.
It wore a business suit,
when nakedness was in order.
A harsh scrub on the face,
Three explanations when I asked
for one. A tooth on fire-- inflamed
by etiquette, sore from too much
sweet, not enough sour--
if that's what was called for,
what was needed. Perhaps
there were eyeballs
to be sewn; jewels
and cigarette holes needing
boxes, needing havens.
What I mean is,
you can't say beneficial
if you won't smash with the hammer.

this is foreign ground

A tea bag, filled with grass,
an afternoon nap at night-- given and
re-packaged for tomorrow.
There are cobwebs on my window,
struck by dust and rain.
Each morning a bird sings, or screams--
how familiar, how alive.
At least its a wall,
no longer a question mark--
those are harder to scale.
Mole hills, mountains--
each a rotting jar of pickles,
each a rung on the wrong ladder.

you always wanted the truth

This is beautiful, a pile of pretty
making designs I wouldn't have
seen if I had kept quiet, stayed clear and clean.
Each day a blush, a bashful glance.
Not knowing can be powerful,
a pinch each minute, a backwards
sway every hour. Into the dusk,
the haze of uncertainty, we travel.
The eye cannot say to the hand,
"Since you do not hold me,
I have no need of you."

Danger doesn't have to be a bomb

Mother's visit.
a tear in panty hose.
a simple "no" or worse, "maybe".
winter.
memory.
a pig in a blanket.
flowers for no reason.
silence.
silence.

my walk with Thee

Ground and afterlife--
our bed suspended between
the two. We roll like dice
landing on all fours.
You spin a necklace
with your spit, and wrap
and wind around my
neck. I curtsey, You bow.
A table for two
before my enemies, we
lift our glasses and drink
to mixed feelings.

finale

Finding the box is empty,
the lip chapped, cracked,
one whistle away from
a train. Thread the needle,
quick, a sling, a patch for
the wound-- the cut of afterthought.
I can rest now.
No longer lost at sea,
he's really dead.

honesty

Across the divorce, the back slash,
you ask for a cup of sugar.
I search the cupboards, the treasure chest,
nothing but a plastic spoon.
We are alone, we are separate.

the pattern of patience

The ring could be an alarm,
could be my pulse,
could be that you're serious now,
or that you've had enough,
could be that you know,
that someone told,
that you feel it is your duty to apologize,
to softly set down the heart in me,
could be that I imagined it,
could be you holding the knife,
my hand, the wrist of wonder,
could be we were swirling in
this belly without knowledge,
without apprehension.

This was not my plan

You didn't tell me about the leaves,
or the falling moon--
you forgot about Autumn.

Each lesson turning over tables
in the temple, an altar saving
the human race.

I weighed this, weighed you
in my hand-- I must admit
I don't like the verdict.

To dance in God's breath

The holy kick in the ass,
the lie of the asp--
no one ever said it would
be believeable.
These are things you can't
make up-- no fairies, only dust.
If your day was severing, a rip
that can't be sewn--you can
talk to him, you know. Drink
the wine, he's on the wall, now
the ceiling--its hard to keep
track of God. Trace his lips
and feel the rough of comfort,
the drape of mercy.

Marriage is like a paper tiger.

Somedays I think you like me
better when I laugh--so I laugh.
Sometimes you don't come home
at night--sometimes I pierce
my own lips.
Those who beat the dead
feel the bone, and I am a sky
full of wings.
I laugh and wonder
where did I get this scar?

be reckless about love

If you love someone, set them free
from paying rent, from their prison,
from the sweater they're stuck in.
Release the gum from their hair,
their hair from the comb,
or maybe its a tomb--
whatever it is, let them out
into the garden. I'm not talking about
an easy out, this will take long
sweaty afternoons, maybe even a spoon
to dig their escape route, to buy their freedom.
Untie, and help them out
of their boots, out of the boat. Rescue
from mirrors that lie and hands that tie
down, down, down.

clandestine

Today I built an Ebenezer with pebbles,
You watched, You were
pleased as wine.
You saw my dance on the train tracks,
feet tapped on rotten wooden planks,
nearby trees blushed.
I sat and listened,
You didn't say much,
I told no one.

against flesh and blood or, a true handmaid's tale

Mirror, mirror on the wall
who, pray tell, should I look
like today?
Pamela Anderson? Hepburn?
Can I pull-off the oversized hat and black shades?
If I don't eat this, he'll want me, he might want me,
will he ever want me?
Oh Magic mirror, how do I look
airbrushed yet natural?
What's the trick?
Finger in mouth? Stomach in, ass out?
Stand up tall, so I may eventually
lay down
heels pointed towards the ceiling--
listening to him sigh and
be pleased all over
my freshly waxed legs?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
grant me the serenity to accept
the things I must,
courage to change the things
I'm told to,
and wisdom to keep my mouth shut
and lips glossed.

Things we lost in the fire

love notes,
a wood carving of Jesus,
a tea set,
all the silver ware--except one spoon,
three pickle jars,
lavender bedsheets--they were the first to go,
ballet shoes,
all the books--Lewis, Atwood, Steinbeck,
a glass paper weight--burst like an appendix,
Christmas ornaments, tinsel,
a shower curtain, three toothbrushes--one for emergency,
blue cabinets,
a broken VCR,
dental floss in the wastebasket,
the magnet from Kentucky,
the cat,
ice cube trays, a bag of frozen peas,
five condoms--two ribbed,
the dent the doorknob left in the wall,
mother's ashes,
margarita glasses,
couch cushions.

like a faith child

At the cost of loss
we make the jump,
make the cake,
make our face.
Drift back to down;
without the embrace,
a front lawn,
a lion's yawn-- mixing
in the drink, the fixed teeth.
A pinata, wrapped like a dead Jesus
in paper mache-- bust
out the lollipops, the round chocolate chews--
children scatter all afternoon, between the trees,
climbing on our knees and sofa.
At night, belly to belly, you pull out early--
because of the day, because of the babies with milk breath..
because we already discussed this--what we don't want.
My breasts still ripe, you sigh at the ceiling--
I think this is why.

doloroso palabra

Use them like spices in soup,
tagged with a biscut.
Sparingly like lemon juice, sea salt
each pinch a bucket of boldness.
Everything can sting if used properly,
the right amount can scar,
become the good samaritan with a chainsaw--
a backwards trip and fall.
Kneel beside the pot,
pick the dandelion's head,
pass the salt.

Blessed are they that mourn

Not without struggle--
the mosquito hum in ear;
doesn't she look amiss, they'll say
when the wind catches my hair
and doesn't return it.

A poet should see differently--
I still see the contents of mirror,
fresh flab on bone
strangling any hope of summer wear.

Tennyson doesn't read to me,
nor any other lover--
I press words with single tongue,
sifting through pages as a solitary sieve.

in which I confess a fantasy

If I could be a man with you--
slap your ass, pass you a cigar,
we'd tight rope walk Philadelphian roof tops
with a bottle of Jameson.
Close to your penis, I would wrestle you
in front of girls-- jealous of our brotherhood--
your soap and English skin, slipping
sweat against mine.
I'd listen to talk of women,
breasts and cunt--
feeling privileged, and a little dirty.
Meeting at the river, we'd be naked
in moonlight, and I'd pretend not to notice.

I'm so afraid I will spill the beans

There is much to say about ambiguity,
much to tell in regard to her words--
the phrases she use that bind up inside,
that pull like pumpkin from the vine.

There is much to tell about suffering.
The way it is immediate and unrelenting.
The manner in which it divides,
and sifts the wheat.

There is much to discuss regarding pineapple,
its juice of potent sting to wounds.
The way it stands next to cantelope
and leaves its scent on orange skin.

desgarrar

I went through a great divorce--
left pieces of my lips on your collarbone, your abdomen, your belt buckle.

The letter I sent contains your personal items:
whispers, last winter, a sonogram.

I trust you will be able to take care of the weeds,

the smoke rings I blew in your hair- grey.

This isn't a dent,
there's no need to apologize,
I concieved this on my own.

Proposing to God

Fully alive was never enough.

Understand that I have a very, very lonely place--
and the doorstep, this space within me,
a domain of sickness--
pulled apart, leaving, leaved.
The eyes of moderates were on me-- growling
I praised, I talked about dark thoughts--
I made them blush numerous, a sigh.
That apple tree, my curiosity for a silver bowl or
a roof bathing betrothed, brought a long, empty house.

I have mentioned growling,
but it grew of cares that I needed.
I made orphans and widows, through no fault of their own,
kiss my sandal, the unrighteous neck of my exploitation.
Like a hungry dog ashamed of dying,
I looked back from a shame, a body, a head I didn't know.

Despite myself, a Rock undid my hair and laid it
in the lap of The Pursuit. At once I noticed
my inhabited solitude-- as a party, resulting
in the clear and unequivocal.
Concerning the Holy Spirit, I was ingesting wind
and felt a child at this time.

How do I explain this abstraction? The problem
with such great salvation words like redemption
or rebirth is dimension.
(I can't see the furniture in the house of God.)

You waited, without rehearsal, as the Father,
while a large milestone broke free from
my other places. This was an eternal and internal act.
At the cost of losses, to this thunderous calling I replied.
Without confusion is not always easy, therefore I drove
forward into the mouth opened to me.
I never saw a man let the sin of my fallow ground
churn beneath his nails-- so much difference just dropped
everything.

Meek God, I am not over remoteness, wandering,
sleepiness-- and if only one Wednesday could be retracted.
The conversation on Tuesday of Holy Week did not
steal the sin of my compulsion. In fits of fear,
"But Lord, what will take its place?"
The first step is to let go-- and I resisted a little yesterday,
with both hands.

Others ask, "Aren't you afraid of Him?"
I tell how You can't let things smash,
and what I think You will do is different and
to support me You underwrite my support.
"You seem whipped", they reply.

I'm prepared for meals together,
to sit and tell You everything, my Husband.
How good You're waiting at our table.
I refuse to keep, the strand of hair, past diseases.
I swear to refrain from the highway, sins visiting hours,
demons hidden in my body.

You, my Mount of Olives,
kiss my moon skin,
like flashlight faces we burn.
People will say of us,
"They were close friends".

I'm speaking of powerful

drink deep the peace of God--
on saturday, during the storm, when the car breaks down.
see what you get when you mix the supernatural
with a grocery list and somedays

this 19th century woman wants something she can
read that won't make her fall asleep,
something worth waiting for.
a rabbit finds its mate quickly,
while I take another yawn and roll over

In mother-in-laws, in the grandchild,
I find myself tickling the idea of never

could he accept my angles, my frizzy curls,
my process? is he still hunting for a looking glass,
a bed knob, a way out?

Charis

Romeo, dear Romeo, love is patient,
love is kind and love is enough.
The tables of the Torah are the landscape of love
wherein all others end and we begin.

When we are full of sleep, amid a crowd
of stars, marvelously we are no longer "I" but "ours".
No longer garments of odds and ends-- but knit
together in Divinity's pocket.

Sweet Romeo, even despair yields profit
in this sanctuary where we open and close
and open again, where we roll like marbles
in the mouth of God.

This is not sport, sir.
This is our hands, damp socks,
the way the sun goes up and down.
What I mean is, Romeo,
we have been blessed.

Nothing's as easy as velcro shoes.
Telling someone they should love Jesus won't make them love Him,
relationships take minute after threaded minute to find a pattern,
Mom won't always be around at Christmas.
What I mean is, those shoes,
they make things too simple, too self-adhesive--
when really, things like parents and hearts
and churches fall apart all the time.
Babies die in swollen bellies,
and women birth death.
People starve and poverty thrives.
I don't know what I'm getting at, except--
those damn shoes are a lie.

Sinews and sinners

Queen Jezebel was eaten by dogs. Fell out a window, grabbed the curtain--everything tears. Skull, saliva, bone. A stone throne, a stone's throw--from balcony to ground. Red robed teeth hounds. Belly, breast, knee cap--canine tongue's lap royal blood. Intestines flood cement cracks, designing spider vein maps for generations to come: how to avoid being the whore. Sexuality is a bore, believe this and be spared. Or, don't live next door to a dog pound.

We fall in love:

over cups of tea, warm in my hands and mouth.
under dark skies, and when the sun is hot and alive.
during winter, during car rides, during weddings.
with noise, with silence, with coughs and sneezes.
while I'm angry, while He's quiet.
between sleep and awake.
mid-afternoon, in the barn, on the leaf pile.
with difficulty, with questions, sometimes with ease.
when the party ends, when everyone leaves, when I'm alone.
every day, randomly, when nobodys looking.
in closets, on my bed, in the shower.
between lovers, between jobs, between addictions.
in books, on my window sill, when it snows.

Its rarely about the weather.

We talk about earlier today,
the things I said but shouldn't have.
We discuss my thoughts about certain men,
I tell Him who I find attractive, who I wouldn't mind kissing--even though they have a beard,
He listens and giggles.
I tell him my fear of being a lesbian, or a mother--
He says He knows.
We talk about the past and how it isn't the future.
He tells me about crosses and graves
and how you can't have one without the other.
I lay on my bed and watch my window
as He speaks through snowstorms.
I tell Him that I hate certain people,
He says, "We'll work on that."
We talk about next week, and He tells me not to worry.
He tells me that I look pretty in my orange dress,
I say thank you.

aquatic musings

Nothing to say, except-
penguins.
penguins, those steady creatures,
balancing on their blocks of ice.
Nun costumes waddling over
frozen depths,
stomach slidding across tundra.
Fish in mouth,
flightless afternoons,
monogamous couples.
Soft white bellies below,
black from above.
Covered in camouflage
from dawn to dusk.

locus classicus

There was snow in my collar and March under
my fingernails.
We walked to the door, he told me
what color my eyes were,
I told them they were blue,
he told me I must be mistaken.
If you overlook things it works--

if you don't do it too much.
All I can tell is what I see,
books on the shelf, a ceramic bowl full of bananas,
a wool sock on the bed.
Sometimes when you say something,

it dangles-- like a loose tooth-- and everyone can see,
and everyone knows where it went wrong
and what shouldn't have been said.
Now there's something always in our bed,

kicking around by our feet,
under your pillow..
a cavity, a wool sock, a hand.
There's always something we won't say--
It's too bad really...
I'll try harder...
I'm sorry...
Life's really about that wool sock,

where it will show up,
who's missing it,
when it last got washed.

my querido

You bring Your love in paper bags, or
in mouths of strangers and store clerks, or
in back breaking pews.
You talk to me in snowstorms
or bent by bedside.
We make plans--
a nap this afternoon,
maybe a walk tomorrow evening.
We enjoy wine together.
Sometimes we're quiet,
staring at the carpet or my fingernails.
We lie very still
and know, this is delight
and we indulge.

bedtime stories.

The part, the prick,
the threaded needle.
The ring around the rosies,
around the finger-- plump and swollen
from pointing and picking and sewing gold.
She stays asleep until there's a prince to kiss,
or dirty laundry to scrub with magical bubbles
that fairygodmothers pop out of.
Vines climb, clamber up to the chamber
where she sings and naps and talks to mice.
She sits at the window and stares and sees
the fields with their farmers
and the trees sway when the wind sighs.

trivial

I should have known
last Tuesday was chilly
did you ever buy that ring?

He takes sugar in his tea
the number fell out of my coat pocket
blue is her best color

this is 4 percent of your daily value
unwrap your finger, I want to see the cut
we didn't go to the shore that year

the snow stuck to the window screen
he said we're just friends
I left my curling iron plugged in.

spill

You are there-
mute as the moon,
or the milk in my bowl.
I am here-
hand over heart
like pledging allegiance.
It may be more dangerous if you remain silent
about this whole mess,
this love business,
this sticky fog between our voices that cakes everything.
I imagine it would be much worse
to hold your breath for 2 minutes than to acknowledge
that someone passed gas.

I call you "dulzura"

She asked me what I was wondering
and I told her about the time you smashed snow in my face
and when you pretended to be the voice for my
splintered thumb.
I told her about your grandmother's sister's cousin--
the one in movies.
And I told her about red lipstick that she's too young to wear.
I told her about your brown shoes, the two chairs on your porch,
and your father's walk.
I told her where we buried your goldfish.
And about the first time you kissed me
and how it tasted like pinnapples and cavities.
I told her how your aunt pinches you when you fall asleep in church.
And she asked me how I could wonder all these things at once,
and I told her about the way your eyelashes blink a
million times a day and how I never get tired of watching them.

in which I talk to You.

You are God...butterflied and blue-eyed,
make-up artist extraordinaire, blond, black and brown haired.
You are the God who wades in my darks
and seperates the whites.

Waltzing, graceful God--
You are the pastel chalk I use
when all my crayons break.
The God of paper flowers and comic strips-- the God who sits
on a couch, inside my belly and tells me stories
of war and Christmas and last week.

You are God--interdependent, 3 in one,
Father, Ghost and Son--
You drape last Tuesday across a chair and love me
despite the holes in my nylons.

Oh God of assylums and peace pipes,
please put me in Your silver goblet and drink me
down with Your half-chewed turkey this Thanksgiving.
Oh God of every season, of every reason to believe
in thorns and blood and rolling stones,
help me sit down and let You stand.

Oh selfish, self-less God,
break me to pieces in Your hand
and give me a thousand tongues to sing
of this freedom.

abdomen abolition

He had a tattoo of a cross on his stomach
on the left
below his rib cage
He had it removed
he said he felt convicted
he said "something must change if the cross begins to fade"
and I believe him when I touch
the religion-less pink scar.

Dear Peter.

Call me when you get back from Never-Neverland,
sometimes I just want to touch you.
Your silk hair, wrapped around my tongue,
your pink face swallowing mine by midnight candle light.
How many miles did you travel?
How many stars to the right is it again?
Did you bring the boys home with you? How long have they been lost?
They can live in our attic, and basement, and sock drawer.
We can adopt them all and live in a shoe
and eat the gingerbread shingles and gumdrop roof of our house.
Let's drink to grassy knolls and Tinkerbell
and Hook's missing hand,
some things are as timeless as breathing.

Honeymoon

Could you say bosom
instead of chest?
And my belly. Could you refer to it
as Solomon does? A heap of wheat.
Stomach is a flat word.
Be queen sized bed, naked
under overcoat with me--
no more Bubonic shyness,
we have Jesus' permission now.
I promise, we'll be shadowed
by rooftops, and blown lightbulbs
and 3am.
This will be revival.

My first encounter with Santa Claus sent me screaming into the dark world of doubt.

Anticipation. Can't sit still.
Big bulbed lights on houses. Fire hazards.
Dad drives too slow. What if we miss him?
Brown, slushy sidewalks. Fake snow sprayed on store windows.
Revolving doors. Gusts of perfumes and greetings.
Long, curvey lines. Children with sweaty hands.
Mint jelly elves. Rebok sneakers with tights.
Red hat. Cotton ball snow.
Faded black boots. Dad's grip leaves my hand.
Lifted into a red lap. White gloves adjust spectacles.
Tangled beard. Cigarette breath.
A white glove slides under my ass. Massaging fingers.
Yellow smile. Grip tightens.
Dad looks at lingerie. Santa wishes me merry.

Flame

The word of God has just come blazing
thru my hair, thru the streets--
mixed with white wine, staining teeth and hands
of papier-mache sinners
and lullabye saints.

The word of God has just come blazing
down, down baby--
at the cross, by the riverside-- baptize your feet,
your fingertips in the burning flow of God.

The word of God has just come blazing
and you have been sleeping in
toy stores and indecision. Take up your cross,
Jesus was a human shield.

Tomato Delights

Acceptable, you're in for a treat.
My wedding will be art in the garden
color and long-lasting bone.
You should tell your doctor, "fool's onion," or
"mountain of cheeries, take me fishing".
Three kinds of people are the real ones
perfume, smoke, dust.
Tiny is stronger
have the diamond reversed.
Can April shower?
When you're ready...
leave the rest to spiders.

Birthday trees

Balloons tied to branches.
Pinks and aquamarines bounce in the sway
of wind and tug of children's sticky fingers.

Presents tight-rope walk limbs--
'til cake and games are done--
then down to hands and giggles.

The donkey gets his tail,
someone trips and tears her dress,
candles blow out.

Ribbons found curled in bushes weeks later.

Apparition.

It was her sister that filled the air.
The preacher said so--
in his thin black tie way.
Impressions are absorbed
by the heels
and she is beneath us now.
Look down into the pause and know
that none of them are ours, but belong to the God
of haunted houses and embalmment.

It was her sister--
a human isn't a word to be put down
on paper and shelved.
They should be released from their urns,
to move into guest rooms,
to swirl in our blended wine bellies,
to see the bee without his sting.

Held by the heel.

Dear Dream, we learn from the other.
So what am I to make of my son,
and consciousness?
Professionals watch differently and are attentive
to lack or loss--
the pursuit of toy figures,
rewinding. Endlessly watching.
Father will attest to the hard stone.
One can hear curses, he'll say.
My son however, is a Jacob.
His remarkable ability to catalogue
manifests a creative alphabet-- yearning
in paint or word.

A Dozing Damsel fights back.

Locked in this attic.
These plastic hips can't move that way
legs won't bend in that direction
breasts are not removable.
I've been your Sedated Beauty,
had the needle's prick.
I'm no stranger to heights,
no foreigner to "stay put"s and "don't look down"s and
"keep your hair away from that window".

Didn't your mother teach you?
"sticks and stones will break your bones".
Sever my knots,
surrender the blade,
back away,
I'm done with this tower.

Blizzard

Bring the snow down
freezing lips to flagpoles
will you kiss me still?

Jack Frost's members lie on the ground
hands frozen over mouths
no one will tell me where you've gone.

Skies turned black-and-blue, turned grey
I study liberty in the closet
you'll call me a sinner in the morning.

Jesus tied my boots for me
snow spit thru the open window
I'm coming alive.

I gave up sleepwalking
she said I need to confess more
I think you are part of my breath.

Amalgamation is a messy process. Part 1

9:00am--the caterers.

Apparently the Salmon didn't get refrigerated last night.
No one is quite sure who's fault it is. But one of the caterers
left for a cigarette break and hasn't returned.
But about the Salmon, they think they can "revive" it.
They say its a long process.
And they're wondering,
Could we postpone the wedding a few hours?

9:45am-- the mother of the bride.

The ring bearer found mom in hysterics in the basement.
She thinks she looks like an upside-down ice cream cone in her dress.
The top is too tight, squeezing her breasts and stomach down
causing everything to plummet out around her knees.
Dad keeps telling her she looks lovely, while grandmother is giving her lessons on how to appear thin by continually walking sideways.
Dad's always had a thing for dairy products.

10:07am-- the veil.

One of the cousins had a case of bed bugs last week.
Aunt Christine assured us they were all gone
and showed us how Millie wasn't scratching anymore.
While Aunt Christine was busy seizing Millie's roaming fingers,
the maid-of-honor appeared with the veil--which now had bed bugs the size of ladybugs nestled into the tulle.
Later, one of the cousins tattled on Millie.
Apparently, she had spent the night cuddling a 104 dollar veil instead of Pamela Pickles.

Love lives in the liver.

I would like to meet a man who has seen the inside of God's mouth.
A gentleman who cannot sleep without mercy
tucked under his pillow.
Someone who believes that angels sleep
in ears and desk drawers...telling comfort to prostitutes and business men.
A man who gives his bed to the homeless,
a man who has one eye on the sky and the other on orphans and widows.
A man who would cut off his hands and scoop out his eyes
rather than whore himself around.
A man who doesn't need me or my sex.
I would like to meet a man who would tell me the truth
even if that truth was "no" or
"goodbye".

Forget Eros, I want διάπραξη.

Would you visit me if I was in confinement? And bring me bread
instead of chocolate?
Would you support marriage if it was forbidden,
and attend damp basement cermonies with our friends and neighbors?
Would you die to preserve the wedding vow?
What if I was being beaten and sawn in two--
would you dig a tunnel with a spoon and help me escape?
Would you be my Valentine?

Linguistic union.

I'm a little hung up on words--
chalky, stiff, abrasive words
that brush my teeth with a towel.
Pleasant, but sticky words
like eclectic and breasts--
words that peanut butter the roof of my mouth.
Words that I can trip over
or brick-wall run into... lint, red, wait.
Buttercream, fluid, blue-raspberry--
words I can sleep with still on my tongue,
and don't make me undress at night.
Awkward, stones, devious--
winter words I cough out or tie scarfs around.
Words that sit in waiting rooms with me and yawn
at flourescent lights.

Unconventional Catholic.

Night tumbles into town, bruised
with black, whistling off marmalade
clouds pinching children and old women
into houses. She says you can't make up
for the day with penance or wrapping fingers
around marbled rosery beads but I know differently,
tonight in the maple air-- a man drops his keys
on the doorstep, "Jesus Christ".
Some people don't say their prayers
by bedsides,
with hard knees and cranked necks
in early evening.

Volta do mar

Over the river and thru the woods
the woods-- the unholy dark blanket that lies
between your house and mine.
I still do not have your correct address.
I still do not know your mother's name.
On windy afternoons I watch her clothspin sheets and socks
to the piece of twine that strings like the Straight of Gibraltar thru your backyard.

I'm thinking of asking you to marry me.
We should live together now, since we...
we could have a small ceremony, or a giant one
that overtakes this town. You could wear something soft
that your mother (what's her name?) made.
I could borrow my brother's suit, he only wears it to church.
It still has the tags on it. I'll buy a tie.

This is a good plan. You wearing something soft,
me in my new tie.
We could have lamb after the ceremony-- my father just shot one of ours.
Your mother can carry some flowers from the field, where we...
Do preachers take bribes? Can they keep quiet?

Grace

Feeling amazing grace, like a rough towel
or the blood-provoking prick of a needle. Listening
to its words swim thru sickly sin's scales
and weights. Splashing along
the banks of the baptismal river...the sun,
a warm haze in late afternoon
eyes and yawns under poplar trees
stretching to grasp the significance of stars and God's
obsession with flimsey mortals.

What if the Bible was made of chocolate?

What if Eve had eaten a pear
that gave her chest hair, instead of birth pains?
And suppose Sodom fell in love with Gomorrah
and she left her wicked ways,
and they got married in Vegas
to the tune of "Amazing Grace"
or"You ain't nothing but a hound dog"?
Imagine if Ezekiel ate the scroll and it gave him indigestion
and he couldn't stop burping while the Almighty was talking?
What if God was rude, didn't care about your personal space...
wasn't concerned with stepping on toes, or insulting the masses?
what if He actually wanted you to die
and did everything He could to lead you to this point?

My father is a lobsterman.

This grandfather town wrinkles
my shirts and dreams,
with it's 'everyone should be a lobsterman'
mentality.
How can I come out
of the closet and tell my father that Ohio whispers
my name in the night,
or that I prefer the taste of milk
to beer.

Every early violet morning,
he stuffs his size 11 feet
into rubber boots, tucks a soft pack of Winston's
into his shirt pocket, and sifts himself out
the screendoor into the day.
This place can cry
with the best of them,
but my father is blind

to pity and sentimentality. His skin is made
of things I'm not, strong lasting materials:
like the chains people put on
their tires in winter or the burn
mother got from the stove last night.