Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
No birds. No rustling.
Even my own breath is soundless.
There's a new something
coming. It's bigger than my heart.
A large swatch of sky,
it arrives on my doorstep, the blue
folded and sitting in a basket.
Lifting this gift, I rise and am pulled
away, to a different land,
where the roses give all year long.
Friday, April 27, 2012
along a creek. It's in the leaves--or more precisely,
the reflection of light off the leaves--sudden antidote
to the monster that was born under my bed,
the one now living in my head. I free him.
I'm freedom. And we're dancing under
sunshine, me and this old monster. And my heart's
so big it bursts out of my back, becoming
wings and I fly.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
so make it last. Smooth out
the wrinkles and keep it
behind glass. Display this piece
on the mantel--that's where my family
kept precious things: the nesting dolls,
my 'best actor' trophy, the antique
clock. When it chimed at nine,
I tremored because it was time for bed,
signaling the last minutes of what I knew
as life. When I fell asleep, things
turned sketchy. Monsters, cars without
brakes. Rivers I needed to, but couldn't,
cross. My father's cross with me. I won't
go to bed. I want to pull back the hands
of that old clock, and re-meet today.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
I crave that snow.
A year seems a long time away. Summer's
nearing--it'll rain tomorrow and then, sunshine.
The tomatoes will thrive and I will fill
myself with vegetables. The almonds will fall
from the June trees, we'll watch
bluejays pry them open.
Later, I'll open up, too--after the zucchini is through,
when the fruit stands have boarded up.
The children will be trick or treating,
and I'll be handing out pieces of my heart,
carefully, but nonetheless, I will.
Monday, April 23, 2012
a blank slate can lead
to a blank slate. All this white
makes me think of a cutting board
full of lemons. I cut them open
and let out light, let out shine.
I squeeze them, turning my wrist
this way, then that. I fill a pot
with the juice, add sugar
to match. Cook on low until
the granules dissolve.
This is concentrated.
I want to concentrate on other things
besides lemonade. I want to write
grand sweeping lines that shake
my readers to their bones.
But these lemons need
using. The world is full of things
and people that are just waiting
for you to show up
and give them reason for life.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Dirt under my fingernails.
The young leaves of the watermelon plant
eaten by tiny slugs.
No watermelon summer.
The light pushes into the ground,
reflects off of the leaves.
Everything's glowing, growing.
Sometimes, you have to stay very still
and allow yourself to be tended to
by loving hands, to bloom and give.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sitting with my breath, waiting for today
to reveal itself. Sunrise seems earlier
than usual and I’m slow to leave
the house. I want to wrap myself
in a blanket, stave off spring
and all its newness. What might
happen when I walk
out the door. Even the birds are quiet.
It’s too soon to know anything
even if my heart clamors
with possibility. Waiting keeps me
wanting more than one day
can hold. (Hold me.)
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
that's where I want to reside,
make that small pause a sturdy house,
a small house with a woven,
rust-colored rug and a pot-bellied stove.
There's a rocking chair in one corner,
small table in another, narrow bed
under the window. And when I wake up
before dawn, my curtain is night and
full of stars.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Easter-egg colored to meet
this day new.
The sun’s out after four days of storms.
This is reality, not a metaphor.
The God I take into my body
is real, too. But don’t you know,
He’s in everything,
the steam rising from my teacup,
the glow on the lawn,
the tomato plants reaching
to make fruit for us.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
After the storm, I’m unprepared
for the light. It’s bright and my eyes
hurt. I want to wrap myself in a gray
blanket of clouds, read in bed,
light the fire in the fireplace.
Drink hot drinks.
But now, the pressure of daylight
saying—come, come to me, move
quickly under this sun, work
your body as it’s never been worked.
Plant more seedlings, climb on a bicycle,
dig into the soil and put seeds in the ground,
so you’ll have flowers all summer.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
It was too hot for school so we went to the beach, all of us, the whole class. They must’ve gotten a hold of every one of our parents, to get verbal permission slips. Either that, or it was before the day of such protocols. I went to the beach often, we lived close by. But I’d been nearly swallowed by a wave when I was two so was scared of the water, even at ten. We rolled up our pants if we weren’t wearing shorts. I was already the fattest girl in the class, but I didn’t care. My parents loved me. My father bought me three candy bars every night. Just because I’d asked and couldn’t choose. I never felt like I fit in with the other children. I never felt like I fit in to my own body; it was as if I was always walking through a dream, half asleep and a everything a little bit fuzzy. Maybe it was the sugar. When we got to the beach, some of us started playing jumprope with a long piece of seaweed that was slick and the thickness of our school jumpropes. I loved the pieces of seaweed with the bulbous heads and the kelp hanging from it, like a mermaid dress. I wanted to dance with the seaweed, as I spent hours at home with records on making up dances to go with songs. The dances were always a illustrative—I’d always put my hands on my heart to go with the word love. I wanted to love this seaweed monster for her freakishness. I picked her up and carried her around, even if it meant my hands would end up with that gross feeling of dried salt at the end of the day. When we ate lunch, I put my seaweed friend down and plowed through my cheese sandwich and apple and peanut butter crackers. But before I could finish, stupid Keith (who was in the lowest reading group in the class) stomped on the head of my seaweed friend, popping her open. I vowed never to let him touch the caterpillars I kept on my desk again.
Friday, April 6, 2012
The moon’s so bright I can’t sleep. I’m rocking myself,
an invisible cradle holds me. I never had a cradle, even
though I wouldn’t remember those things—
babyhood, staring at strange ceilings.
My body remembers the lack of a wooden structure.
The sensation of boat moving me from side to side.
I keep buying wooden rockers. Without arms. I don’t
want to be trapped. But back then, I needed safety
that I didn’t get. My parents told me that if you trust
the world, no one will take advantage of you.
They left the front door wide open every night.
Forget the ropes, the chains.
It was the neighbor with the fancy alarm
system who was burglarized. We had things
and money, too. The first VCR on the block.
And now, even my heart’s a diamond
mine, ready for extraction. I’m ready to be
cradled—human arm-bones the bed I never had.
Otherwise, I’ll wait for the full moon to wane,
step up into it, and, finally, rock to sleep.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
dyed red. Horseradish and chocolates.
Candles and cured meat. All this is waiting
to be blessed. If, for forty days, you prayed
and stayed—within human means—
away from certain worldly things, then glory.
Me, I’m cranky, my prayers sound
like curses and all I can think of is candy.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
her head as she walks around the creek. The water
in the creek is light, too. Liquid sunshine. Even
the molecules in the air glow, so her limbs
are moving through light, through shine.
Walking’s a swim through thick radiant spring.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
dollar signs and plastic toys. I passed paper over a counter
today, greenish and smelling dirty, like that boy in fourth
grade who took baths rarely. My heart reached out to him.
I let him touch my pet caterpillar kept on my desk in
I considered myself an insect zookeeper, didn’t know the
for insect specialist. I didn't ever want, anyhow, to
learn how to kill
mayflies or any other flying thing. Wings were kin to
I wondered why my art teacher’s son could see angels,
but I couldn’t. It troubled me. But being troubled over
and miracles is not the same as the break in my brain
If only I could’ve stopped time while studying the bees
in the mudpit earlier today, a five year-old child by my
If the only thing I saw were wings when I shut my
I’d rest well. I try, but President’s faces materialize,
stop my flight.
Monday, April 2, 2012
as we turn it to plant flowers, vegetables,
and herbs. Summer, quicken its way to us,
I want rosemary to overflow on this bed’s
corner, and wide red tomatoes sliced with salt.
Why are they called beds? Do we grow when we sleep?
If so, put me to sleep until summer, when the squash
flower’s transformed into squash, when I’ve learned
not to give the rocky parts of childhood
my roots. Let me reach down towards something
prior to birth, to the fire at the core of the earth,
the heat and light and power that also fuels stars.