Graphophobia

I have not written in years--
and now I notice my hands
have wrinkles-- no longer smooth
and young. Like my mother's hands--
when I would hold them during church
and pick at her fingernails until she pulled
them away and gave me a hymnal to play with instead.
I have not written for fear of
what it could do to me.
What if it lifts the rug and opens the spot, in the heart,
that all mothers must seal and guard
with a flaming sword--in order to keep loving
and losing and loving
again? What if I discover I can't write anymore?
That my words have dried and cracked
and that my hands are now exposing what would
come out of them if allowed to lift the pen?
Or, what if I am released by it--into a lake
I haven't sunk into in years?
What if it sanctifies--
and it's fires burn me holy?

On being a mother

No one told me I would hate
the sounds of sirens- unless my children
were home, in my arms, or
in bed.  I did not know I could feel
like strangling and snuggling
at the same time, but I do,
often.  I am God, in the book
of Hosea, simultaneously loving
and hating and loving again.
When my flesh and blood take to flight,
learn new words, start sleeping in
"big boy" beds- I cheer for them
and cry within, because they are moving
away from me.
Motherhood comes in waves
of mourning.  With each step they take,
the cord is severed again and again
and again.

Cherubim and Seraphim

The thoughts of angels must be soft
and whole and ripe.  They lift
with the wind and settle
at the feet of Christ.  They think
of the stripes that healed the wounds
of earth, the lovely pink string
of time, the constant beating
of wings.

burn

We lost everything in the fire...
the blanket your mother made,
our wedding pictures...
things that proved we had a history.
Out on the lawn,
we held each other and gazed
at the process of loss.
My eyes flickered thru the flames
and focused on a single point-
a metal lamp- standing stiff and alone
as the hot color licked up around it.
At dawn, we walked thru the skeleton
of our house
and cried and cried,
as our life lifted in the wind
like moth's wings.

I remember the morning you left.
I heard you sing,
heard the see-sawing of the rocking chair
kiss the floor and pull away again.
I washed the calico-blue bowls,
letting the water ripple lazily over my skin,
listening to you in the next room.
The mid-morning sun was already sneaking
between the trees as I watched a bee dip
into a lily and bumble back out.
At this moment, I was full and hopeful and whole.
Within minutes, you were gone- lifted from my life
and carried in a box to the field down the road.
I was empty; missing parts of myself.
You didn't sing; I couldn't listen.
I burned your chair,
broke the bowls,
killed the bee.

In the beginning was the fall-
the split of wood, the sever.
Together, we screamed and covered
our bodies with hair and leaves
and hid from the explosive steps of God.

We are now a puzzle-
the pieces which He chisels and saws.
As a worn out creation, we raise
our hands to protest the pain
and hear the roar,
"This makes you whole".

my husband, my wife

Under the hazel moon, we swirl
into one another- with wonder-
we extend our arms like trees
toward each other's face
and touch the pink lips
of eros.

To dust you shall return.

When I was born, my mother says that I

came out in a sack of water, and that this

is why I have always loved the ocean.

When they bombed Hiroshima, all the

people turned to ash and blew away to

other lands.

When my grampa was eight he tried

to dig a hole to China, but only got halfway

before dinner.

We are all part of the earth, the sacred dirt-

that sticks under our fingernails and to

the knees of our blue jeans. When we die,

we come back as countries that have yet

to be discovered.

salt.

I have a wife made of salt.

We haven't made love

in 35 years-- it would ruin her.

I don't carry a picture of her

in my wallet, I can't stomach the questions.

Instead, I carry a picture of some woman

I got from a store-bought frame. Her

hair is brown. She looks

happy, and real.

My salt woman has tears like the sea--

I let them run down, I let them freeze.

I think she is brave-- my wife...she just looks

and looks and never turns around. Her sin was-

peeking behind her.

Eat me. (sort of a cut-up)

A tranquilizer--
at home, at the office,
in court, under
the tongue. It makes up
for the absence of God,
or your widow's weeds,
or chemistry's uncompassionate sleep.
You really should settle.
You really should take the edge off.
This is your only buyer-- dissolve it,
swallow it, and wash it down--
there is no other devil left.

Trapeze ease. (a cut-up)

In the stillness- hushed,
astonished air- the weight
of the body has failed
to fall. Alone, he lacks wings.
Unfeathered, he crouches;
he plots, he threads himself through
the newborn arms at just this moment.

Merely. (a cut-up)

He wants, he wants,
he wants a teaspoon
of ocean- with his eyes,
with his ears. In a word,
he is filled with freedom
and came to be stars-in his own way-
a crystal's childhood
in the herd.

It goes deeper than murder.

Imagine the house is on fire. Imagine
I am on fire. As I avoid the worms, turn
a wine glass on its side--watch as the liquid
quietly slips-- as the flames pulse and lick
my thoughts about the face of Jesus. I resolve
to be weaponless; you resolve to sever the hand
that reaches for the doorknob of my release. If this
is hell, then I am a dog-- bound to the post by the chain
fashioned with my teeth. If this is hell, then I am
at fault for missing the train, the subway, the airplane.
If this is hell, then I announce with finality that you are
a bastard.

Women and war

Walk under foot,
under me, and understand
that I cannot play the violin anymore--
the strings are cut and I am
cut. And you should not be here so late--
drinking and smoking, and telling
stories of then. I was a girl, you were
a girl, and we thought we were
women. No doubt that the war played
its part in our parting, but we cannot blame
all on men. Death and change were indeed
everywhere, and our love was not safe from
those blasts. Perhaps we needed the change,
the distance, to teach us how to grow older and not
feel badly about it. It is difficult to explain what
was happening internally at that time, it was so
long ago. But I will say three things:
I am no longer angry with you, I do not wish
for you to stay, and I am still learning
what it is to be a woman-- in war and out.

I've discovered that life is a squash
that I've left in the cupboard for too long
and now has gone soft and grown ugly inside.

I take it out and try to cook it and make
it into something my tongue or husband might like.

The orange strings get tangled around the spoon.

I opt for cereal instead.

He is my placenta

Jesus has been kind with my slowness.

There is a lightness in his voice when we shower together.

I save him the pickles from my sandwich,
he saves my life.

We daydream about the baby in my womb--
he promises me nothing,
I say I understand.

A possible ending

I wonder about the spine of your love-
the snap, the bone placement. Where were you
last night? I never used pain

killers before I met you. A shiver
goes through your face when I ask questions.

I am not an epidural,
I will not make life easier.

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.