She lives under things

a pile of leaves, the newspaper
on the breakfast table, a night-cap.

an agnostic fresh out of confusion,
(we all live at the bottom of a well),
a three days journey to Tokyo.

i did not come for an argument,
your beer was like butter
on my daily bread, a kiss for Santa-
a slap for Jesus.

If you give me the moon

If you give me the moon, I will
put away my rhyme and scheme and reason--
I will melt. If you give
me the moon, I will stand up straight
and always cross my legs at the ankle.
I will try to understand your mother,
say my prayers in perfect 3/4 time,
wash behind my ears with rose hip soap.
If you give me the moon, I will
kiss you with my eyes closed.
If you give, I will.
If you give, I will.

spilt milk

the ring caught on fire and I didn't put it out.
the next door neighbor winked at me.
I stuck out my tongue at commitment.

two can play at this game.

Things that quake

Its not just teeth this time--
its your hand inside me, your body
on a cross on a hill far far away, its
the whore on the floor, the man wailing
at the Wall. This time
it is things I should have left
behind that still follow me
into the night. And the thing
I should have been carrying-- should
be gripping, should be drinking and
eating-- left in a hollow along the way.
Yes, when you spoke there was
night and there was day,
and I'm told that your hand and arm
and muscles rolled the stone away--
so, tell me how to lift my tongue
in such a way that may cause
you to fall for me.

a triune tribute

In the beginning was the word
and the womb- a tight fist punching
its way out of the heavens.

She lives as an upside-down
clock- in time with breath and
death. Each heave a sign of life.

In the upstairs room is a couch
filled with fluff and flies-- the threads
unwind and tear at the thought of weight.

bitter cold

I woke with a bite
of frost in my mouth, leaving
it's mark beneath my tongue. Winter
has come early this year-- like a burn,
or a war. It breaks my knees, my spirit,
my coat out of the closet. Autumn forgot
her name, forgot me, left me
to jump this ice-cubed puddle alone.

There are things that break--
I have been one of them. A pile
of yesterday trapped in my shirt pocket,
three minutes of fear-- this is not a list.
I am not a list.
I can't remember ever hearing my dad
pray. I can't remember the last time
I knelt down. I might walk away.

She was like marmalade

She walked like the ocean-- each
step a blue wave of length and balance.
She sang like the misty mountains-- each
note a deer lapping the crystal pool with his pink tongue.
She had fingers as long and slender as centuries,
a belly made for times of labor, the mark of
strength under her eyes.
She was like marmalade-- coloring
everything with life, but she
still wasn't enough.

Bonfire in Philadelphia

Matches are never enough by themselves. They always need
steady fingers and no breeze. And then
we wheeze—the smoke adopting limbs of its own and
growing around warm faces and freshly tongued beer bottles.
Blue blurs into marmalade orange and violent yellow—we are
all connected. Each flame develops fingers and toes that wiggle
upward and snap at people sitting close rolling cigarettes. The source
spits parts of itself into the black orb all around—the little orange balls
fly off and die before they land, or meet with a pair of torn corduroys or a strand of hair—receiving a startled gasp and silencing slap. The limbs replenish themselves at the base and twist their legs around each other;
unashamedly making love in the middle of our circle.

sweet and sour

I spoke to the drop of lemon about your tongue.
She said “Some things are everything they seem”,
I nodded and licked my lips. She seemed please by my
response. I watched her melt under the sun, into the sidewalk.

I approached the sugar on the rim of glass about your iris.
I told him about the browns and greens, and the reflection
of myself when you are pleased. He said, “Be enchanted by this.”
We continued our talk over cherries and limes.

So, taking the advice of dear friends, I packed my books, and socks
and heart, and moved into you.

The knights have teeth

There was a "please" in the air
and the wind-- the way it painted
and swept the floor-- and the castle
was a pink hint of weight and gold.
His eyes were serpants that kiss
and hiss, the after of glow and cheek.
We never made it to the marsh,
he lost his boot, I lost my heart.
we never found either.

The death of a salesman

My father died two days before
Christmas. There was no new snow, no
cold snap-- just dull and grey and
mixed emotions.

No one knew exactly
how to handle my mother. Her random
outbursts spraying the ham and black olives--
no one moved to get her a tissue,
we all assumed it would pass before desert.

I did cry-- once. I thought about the first
time he left, and how very similiar it was to
this... how he always knew how to damage
without touching. My sister-in-law said this
was his final jab at us-- dying around Christmas.

My oldest brother called him right before
he died. I guess he had lost his ability to speak.
My brother said he forgave him, said he loved him.
My uncle was there--he said my father's lips began
to shake and his heart rate increased. I figured
we could take that as an apology.

I became a winter coat

we haven't spoken for days.
there were tears in my soup.
you slept with the pastor's wife.
i discovered the baby inside me.
there was a phone call at 2 am.
we haven't spoken.

in the beginning...

first there was the spider-- she always
knew what to do. she wore the black dress
spiders wear and climbed on like baby's skin.
we all waited, we held hands, held breasts full
of breath. we watched as she spun the world,
weaved the trees on the river's edge-- she
always knew what it took for things to survive.

she died on the seventh day. we buried her
next to the vines that wind and whip around
the legs of creation.

At 17 weeks they can dream

The mundane has begun-- the clipping
of finger nails, the washing and drying
of clothes, the buttering of bread.
All tasks have been assigned and numbers
given out to the children of the gods.

But there was a time we ate and drank
the wine of womb, as we listened to the secret
of the water. And there was a time without
buying or selling or being late
for the train. Back then, there was
only breathing, the soft in and out
of rhythm.