Praise Poem

for Traci

the perfume of her labor
permeates the school

subtle as air

invisible hint of love
humbly shared

lingering
before and after bells have ceased to ring

she is
the unknown variable working quietly
behind the curtain of each equation

the thinking space between the words
before the showy sentence takes the credit

a century ago
we would have named her
for her virtues

Faith
or Constance
Patience, to be sure

but here in our small moment
we turn to simpler tools
of many poets

impossible expressions of illimitable love
and blessings on the fortune of her birth

Continental Breakfast

the fruit on my plate arranges itself
around the virtuous bran muffin
and the pious hard-cooked egg:
watermelon nestles
next to cantaloupe stained by strawberries
grapes are conspicuously absent
but the requisite honeydew
occupies its watery place
on the periphery of the plate

acolytes digest
the words of the keynote speaker
while chewing and spewing
into notebooks and laptops
and I

loner in the corner

horde the pineapple
like little yellow bricks of redemption
saving its pulpy rewards until
every other morsel is consumed
and the PowerPoint presentation comes
to its impotent climax
and the speaker sits down to sign his books
and then

only then
do I allow it to traverse my tongue
and lodge firmly
between my pencil and my teeth
receiving absolution in its transubstantiation
from simple fruit
to momentary miracle

So Many Unexpected Things

Outside the window,
the snow is falling off the eaves
and crashing to the deck
in raucous heaps of springtime defiance.
The branches of the evergreens
and canes of dormant grape
bend low under its watery weight,
while the roses you arranged on the table
(the one you built,
just for this meal)
stand sentry, pink and white,
and the ache in my ribs
where your bicycle bucked me off its back
throbs, like a car stereo’s subwoofer,
muffled by traffic and steel.

The cup that holds my tea
was thrown by the first woman
who stood before an altar
and pledged her troth to you.
Not worth much in the end,
as it turned out, but odd to think
her hands caressed and coaxed
this vessel into shape,
like they once caressed and coaxed
you into her.
I am surprised when my tea
tastes better than usual.

And these strawberries on my plate,
the reddest, plumpest of the lot,
I would not normally be so greedy
as to take the ripest for myself
but no one else is here,
and no one else will eat them,
and so my motherly inclination
to choose the smaller, paler fruit
is shocked and set aside
as for once I give myself first dibs
and taste the privilege
of breaking fasts alone.

drips from the wet ends of my hair...

drips from the wet ends of my hair
feel like bold print asterisks when they explode
on the inky surface of my skin

but despite my absolution
I’m still quivering in my father’s chair
like the wrung out dishrag I’ve become
cleaning up messes and forgiving trespasses
like all patient mothers are meant to do

it occurs to me that
saplings bend and sway with the seasons
but older trees grow brittle and break
crashing down to the prairie floor
too many tire swings hung on their branches
too many curse words carved in their trunks
eventually they twist and fall

and I am growing taller every day

shift to compassion

shift to compassion


open suitcase
try on theory of relativity
find shoes to match
(desperation is so unattractive)
click

feel the ache in her body
understand (no) her pain
click slam shut

exercise compassion
(with passion)
without reason
or right
or justice
or goddamn common sense
click

so disappointed
we expected more
click

doing the best she can
seeking something she cannot name
wanting what she thinks we have
casting spells at the pity party
pathetic
click

so disappointed
wanting a vote
more maturity in a can of cheez whiz
click

shit
(back to the beginning)

shift to compassion

open suitcase
try on lobotomy
find earrings to mask
the dull ringing in both ears
click

smile through razor blades
click

spit out bits of bloody tongue
click

struggle with the stains
reach for the bleach

quit
off
out

the words pile up...

the words pile up in angry red scales
on the surface of my skin
flaking off into cups of tea
handed smilingly across white tablecloths
to the outstretched hands of simple-minded actresses

they execute tour de force auditions
ingénues doing backbends
into leading lady roles
contorting themselves into obscenities
designed to charm and delight

I am a snake in the footlights
coiling around their sequined ankles
shedding my carmine skin
leaving trails of blood and pus
daring the handler to misjudge me again

On the High Wire

balancing on tiptoe between faith and fear
I suddenly understand the need for parasols

not just to aid in fall-prevention measures
but to shield against the thoughts
that pummel down from clouds
where Worry waits

she must have played college ball
such an arm on her
hurling nuggets of nightmares
at my unprotected head
laughing when her aim is true

while I’m left gasping
trying to focus
on looking straight ahead
ignoring the fate
that will rush up to meet me
the second my footing is false

I would choose a pretty parasol
with two pink flamingoes
surrounded by red hibiscus flowers

their necks would wrap around
to form a heart

and people on the ground
would squint into the sun
and then move on
indifferent

worries don’t begin from down below

Former Lovers on Facebook

they post pictures of themselves
with their toddlers/beautiful wives/happy dogs
nothing to suggest
the horizontal hours we shared
when we were young and free

and if they don’t remember me?
and those days that shaped my knowledge of myself
were less than nothing meaningful for them?
only half-hearted glances back
at times they’d just as soon forget
and not the moments when we set the bars
by which all future lovers would be measured?

the man stretched out beside me
loose and lanky in his sleep
is neither memory nor mystery
and all I have to do is slide down next to him
to be embraced in warmth and sinew
unconcerned with histories or legacies
except to hold my face and say he’s sorry
that I ever shed a tear or spent a moment grieving
over any kind of loss

and all those stamp-sized faces seem so small
and looking in his eyes I have to kiss him
just to close the dangerous distance
between dissolving into lovesick adolescence
and spontaneously combusting in a fit of fever
and the only face I wish to read
is his wide open book of devotions
whispered nightly down my spine
and spread out oh so slowly over everything

Overnight in Joshua Tree

I bled on sheets that weren’t my own
and hid them from my hostess,
not knowing what to say or do
to cover my faux pas.

She was a performance artist
who liked to burn things up
while local townsfolk stood around;
the smoke became applause.

I later learned
her house burned down,
an act of jealous arson
by the married lover’s wife,
(those who play with fire and all that.)

Such relief, you cannot know,
the calcination of my stains,
particulate floating above the smoke
into the desert night
and then, at last, to nothing.

in an instant

walking through the world with the tears of forty years
embroidering the cuffs and collars
of my clothes
sleeves damp with weeping
the moist surface of living
the sharp inhalation of falling in love
or falling apart

premonition

the onset of madness
scares away the crows
all its shiny moving parts
floating in my eyes
above the crops you planted
before last summer’s drought

a la mode

sometimes the poetry comes unexpectedly
like a side of ice cream
on a slice of pie
sweeter than you planned
but still willing to make an exception
especially since you
didn’t intend to order it
which means you can’t really be faulted
for going ahead and eating it

Wisdom of Solomon

one blue eye for me, one blue eye for you
one right thumb for me, one left thumb for you
shuttling back and forth across the warp of our separate lives
we’ve made her life the weft
pulled tightly in opposite directions
stretched to the place between taut
and snap

Invitation

Contributor reading for
IMPROV Anthology of Colorado Poets, 2008 - Peace, War, Love
published by Green Fuse Press

Friday, October 10, 7pm

Loveland Museum, Main Gallery, Downtown Loveland, 970-962-2410.

Readers include but are not limited to: John Blair, Connie Boyle, Hilary DePolo, M.D. & Mari Friedman, Megan E. Freeman, Gordon Holladay, Amy Irish, Shirley Kobar, Pat Maslowski, Veronica Patterson, Maggie Rowlett, Jared Smith, Katherine West…and many more.

Copies of IMPROV 2008 – Peace, War, Love will be available for sale and signing as will be copies of individual volumes of the contributors’ work.

it's pretty simple really

we do not have to lose those things about each other we adore
we do not have to sacrifice our friendship on the altar of intimate histories
we can love each other with the passion of siblings and the ferocity of parents
celebrating the freedoms we loved each other enough to risk

Beetle Kill

the valley has broken out in hives
blotchy and red-brown
the earth twists and rolls
in an effort to scratch its back
but the rash spreads too quickly
and the as-yet untouched acres
hold their breaths and squeeze their eyes closed
pretending quarantine
not wanting to see as they are slowly consumed
in the contagion of the ages

Fraser, Colorado 7:48 p.m.

so much to lose in a sunset
the fading colors of the western mountain sky
dusting the golden meadows with shades of rose
and falling streaks of gray
divided sharply by twin contrails
slicing blades of light across the darkening clouds

below in the twilight
trains stretch the length of the valley
as far as the eye can see in both directions
pulling with all their might
the fuel that keeps the country warm

what happened to cabooses?
tugged along at the rear
the exclamation points at the ends of steel sentences
traversing the pages of highways
through the darkest side of midnight

the confidence of rose hips

the confidence of rose hips
fat and sassy on their feathered branches
clustered in cliques of three and four
triumphant
gleeful
downright noisy
celebrating their successful metamorphosis
from delicate pink blooms
Mother Nature’s happy plan

adrift

did the leaf that just floated past fall in the river of its own accord?
or
did it slip from its branch when a black bear bodychecked the tree that grew it?
or
was it blown from its perch by the exhaust of earthmovers shoving
boulders and concrete into shapes of winter condominiums?

perhaps a little boy
set this leaf on its course
for oceans and adventure
then
bored of the game
and
abandoned the helm

leaving the leaf adrift
on the
swirling currents
of
autumn

Waiting for their mother

three children crouch
on a round picnic table

cranking the umbrella
closed over their heads

eliciting giggles and peals of delight
as the sky collapses

octagonal wonder of the world

here's what's real

here’s what’s real
on this page
with the shit and the blood and the drool
that come from the messy acts of human life
exactly from the beginning
with meconium and amniotic fluid and shreds of placenta
and the start of the beginning
with semen and mucous and sloughed-off uterine trash
seeping from our bodies as if it isn’t obvious
that metaphor is fact
and symbols are simply accessories
we hang around our throats
and dangle from our ears
here’s this poetry
here’s what’s real
outside the porcelain facades
of professionalism and accepted norms
our chemical selves in all our juicy mess
leave trails of truth shimmery as any snail’s

sightings

hummingbird, green, darting between Bluebeard blossoms
grateful for the rain that keeps the bees in bed

rabbit, kit, darting across the sodden lawn
sacrificing dry feet for juicy breakfast

swallows, two, weaving long black horse hairs
into the mud of their bassinet

happy Saturday

happy Saturday to be alone and miss you
to remember why this love of ours is rich
and why - when we unite - our bodies stretch toward one another
like this thirsty thirsty earth that arches its back and tips its chin
to try to catch the rain at the earliest possible moment

the poppy seeds on my muffin are small attempts
to imitate the plenty of this storm
here in this town where rain is rare and ever welcome

this is an all-day childhood rain of indoor recess and soggy shoes
as opposed to the occasional rains we have here
one-night stands where no one leaves a name
and later on we ask if it was worth it

Nesting

I am the only one awake
on this street of sunburst puzzle houses

rain drips off the leaves
like sweet beads of sweat earned from honest labor

our swallow still perches on her nest above my head
her mate sits on the porch light by the door
reminding me that my place on this stoop
is allowed through generosity of their trust

after all, we chose this house to shelter our beloveds
and so must see the kindred in each other

setting*occasion*action

chest (yours – concave)
curled around spine (mine – convex)

arm draped over ribs
tucked under breast
terminating in fingers interlaced right and right

(safe)
I graze freely over the acreage of your heart
protected from predators (though)

the scars of battles fought and lessons won
still smart in the bright sunlight

(and so) you tuck your knees more tightly into mine
left arm up to touch my hair

face in my neck
voice in my ear
your kiss (your whisper)

frees me
(so nourished am I in the sanctuary of your embrace)

Believe it, Baby

the last time my lover made friends
with an unhappily married woman
it didn’t end well
– or rather it did end but not well
for the long-term health
of that particular relationship
– mine and his I mean not theirs –
except that in fact
theirs hasn’t ended yet so
it remains to be seen
whether theirs will end well
and if it doesn’t at least
it won’t have anything to do with me
since surely he’s not comparing us sexually
and having me come out on top
– ha ha no chance of that –
so if it doesn’t end well with them
he will have only
Buddha or the Pope to blame
but in retrospect
it actually ended perfectly
given that she carried him off
and freed me to wink at you
– you sexy dog –
so naturally when your phone rings
and the woman named for the wreath of victory
flashes on the screen
I feel triumphantly devastated
and the moment we shared an hour ago
– me on my knees/you convulsed –
is exposed as a sham
clearly not real despite the heat and wet
and the sheets down in the laundry
what’s real is her name digitized on your phone
and her expectant breath anticipating your hello

Empty Room

the daisies stand up in their vase
like the spray from a sprinkler
before the drops arc out across the scratchy
summer grass to plop against the neighbors’ car
parked against the curb

the cut glass crystal hangs
from the base of the light fixture
catching sunlight and throwing rainbows
onto surfaces throughout the room
with no apparent regard for taste or equity

the chair where you sat waits
apart from the table
separated from its mates by the force
of your decision to stand
and go

its own little island
in the sea of dining room floor

landscape

my fingertips follow
the topography of muscle and veins
like mesas rising from the desert of your skin
sweeping down the valley
to the canyon bed of my sex

you portage across my hips
as I scale the precipice of your back
pausing to lick the limestone crevices
tasting traces of chalky fingerprints
left by other climbers

I pitch my tent
in the shelter of your gluteus medius
making camp against the elements
drinking coffee from blue tin cups
watching thunderheads roll in and away
to storm on other fronts

Settlement

From this day forward
our stories become mine alone.

Dusty dinner conversations
are packed away in brown paper.

Pride is cut and folded neatly into fat quarters,
stored in bottom drawers.

And humility is taken out, shaken out,
and draped across my shoulders like a shroud.