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.