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".