If you look at me you will go blind

The light is water floating just above the tall grass

flush green here, yellow beyond. I could take a boat,

row out upon the meadow to the new housing

development there at the North of town. Then,

when I arrive at the yellow swathe of--grass? lake?

I'll dip a silver cup in that bright shine and drink.

Only when I see it do I crave it--yellow.

And I need to take it in by gallons. Once

filled, I glow. If I climbed that tree,

the monstrous one near Avenue Three,

the whole town would forget the sun and worship me.

Bent

I've been folded, section upon section--

made small, a wallet-sized prize.

One might keep me in their pocket,

a used toothpick, cracked and bent,

poking at flesh through fabric.

The person I stab didn't even hear me cry.

Off he went to perform another miraculous

smashing. This is the part of the poem

where I might guess his mean motives.

Instead, I maneuver the tip of my head

into the light, notice almond trees in full leaf--

and they glint--new green everywhere.

Permission Slip

Dear people, I hereby give

you permission. Be joy.

Swing on swings. Dance a tango.

Play your trumpet through the streets,

along the river. Take off your shoes and wade,

feel the mud between your toes. Eat

butter or whipped cream on everything.

I feel I must remind you, life is small, over soon.

Insist on friends.

Swimming the Pacific or Meeting Madame Curie

We're aglow--if you shut off the lights,

our skin twinkles with radioactive dust, or we drank

a cup of the stuff. A flashlight

snaked down our throat would reveal

cavities radiantly purple, our cells thinning,

receiving an unnecessary treatment.

The news reports say we're destroying the planet--

impossible. Earth older and stronger than even our billion

stupid brains, selfish bodies. Earth roars with laughter,

toppling us with out own advances. I want to be taken

by radiation, crumble into a pile of glowing, eventual

stardust. We'll crumble side by side by side, wind

sweeping us together, raising us, a bit of each person

meeting to make new stars.

Under the Microscope

The world I can't see--my body

swimming with trillions of cells, an ocean

packed with fish or fluid

factories. And atoms, then nuclei and electrons,

a world tinier than my dumb eyes can imagine.

Sometimes, I want to be

that small, sometimes I want to be one of the many,

lost in relentless work, efficiency, invisibility.

I'd like to be a cell in my lover's

heart and travel with him behind the East Wall,

the region of his retreat. I'd join

him in those bottles and daydreams,

climb within him in those one-man beds,

nights of despair, stargazing, fear,

crying spells, freedom, and grief.

Within him I'd work, swishing like a fish,

always moving, always refreshing.

Here I am within his heart, working

tirelessly to repair what ails it.

St. Nicholas Day

for friends in Marfa, December 2004

Her broken body, torn through with disaster—

hurricanes of disease—wallowed through December,

neighbors delivering casseroles and breads,

delivering clean laundry and bedside

stories. That year, she’d no sense of advent—

her body, present and pained and now, was the only

earth she knew, though in her desperation, like gold,

the townspeople’s gifts, her chimney, fat and full,

a chute through which a not-yet-known saint, and Savior, fell through.

According to Your Word

The poet has nothing,

mouth hanging open, staring at the trees,

lit with late autumn—seventy shades of yellow.

Words are empty, too small to contain the awe of advent.

Mary said yes, said, let it be to me.

The poet holds that small word in her mouth,

wondering what it might be to be

approached by an angel. She has no words,

angel—she’s waiting, her hands wringing

wet cloth, accordingly, and wearing

December’s early sun.