nine moons

you started sweetly enough
with love and delight
endless permission
thou mayest
tattooed on our hearts
one for the other
the purity of six-year-olds
loving, cherishing

you prospered quickly enough
a year of my life, a season, a few
three moons of headache
three of friskiness
three of a quiet, discomforted me
and nocturnal you, dawn dancing

you left me easily enough
beautiful stranger
eyes that knew
and perfect
sweet and funny
how grateful we were
graced by your spirit

you're gone
and i might be a hundred
here with these photos
looking at a hundred years past
instead of eighteen

 

edgar

poor poe
bird lover
word lover
smithy of sorts
formidable forehead
writing by candlelight
skritching on a scroll
spilling weirdness
passions, fancies

poor Edgar
on the schoolyard
the thin boy, the pale
he who must restrict activity
due to a murmur
something about his hands
-whiteness,
softness,
tapered fingers -
invited jeers

in the classroom
near the front
soft-voiced Edgar
knew most answers
grew tired of knowing
windows drew his bright mind
when is lesson time over
when is it storytime
ever storytime for Edgar
everso glad it was so

 

room

a non-smoking one
rented to scofflaws; it stank.
a cheap soap smell
spanked the darkness.

i dropped my bag
slipped out of my sandals
on the way to the window
to pull open the blackout drapes.

Early American Ugly everywhere,
all bolted to the walls.
i knelt on the bed; it sang back of
innumerable bouts of rowdy banging, and naughty grade-schoolers
jumping up and down, up and down,
while a weary parent showered.

mustard and dirt in equal parts
rendered the carpet's color.
i was not sure that I didn't smell
a bit of French's yellow
beneath the Cashmere Bouquet;
the dirt was undeniably there.

the television remote,
secured to the night table by a cable,
was smooth and familiar,
as was the weather report
that unfurled to the power button.

i lay back,
just for a moment,
pulling the striped coverlet over me;
more smells not of my making.
precip in Baltimore, drifting,
a vacuum next door, whining,
knocking baseboards,
sleep.

cottage

i dreamed of you again
as i've not since rain muddied the walk
and you piggybacked me damply
to the cottage door

inside sampling wet lips
black teas
drying off at the fire you lit
planning the garden
snap peas
summer squash and okra
you laughed at my passion for vegetables
and growled a carnivore's growl

the lovingest bear that ever walked upright
the loveliest hug
the kindest eyes
the most generous spirit
the least able to minister
to your own sadness

perhaps you took mine
lifted me into joy
sacrificed your own
in some hunger to
hear my laugh again

nut swallows

so reads the hieroglyph
on the men's room wall
Nut swallows the sun
gives birth to the moon

those Egyptians
ahead of their time
with physics and engineering
metallurgy and papermaking
but human digestive
and reproductive systems
and where the twain met
was a mystery

the image i hold -
Nut, arms outstretched
welcoming the lover sun's seed
from which grows moon -
not the reverse
a rape of sorts
man in the moon
having his way
leaving her
to shit the sun
alone at dawn

 

borrower

farm-molded
one lively root, one dull
a taste for simplicity formed
when siblings never came

early observer,
filing stories
storing emotive bits
fascinated by dysfunction
foreign to you

those heads and hearts
geodes you peered into
and shards, painful to the bearer,
were shiny artifacts you polished

did you approach politely
please sir, ma'am,
may i borrow your ache?
eyes narrow, arms akimbo
protect their tender facets

something that glows softly, sadly
draws you to me
the unfinished, the unhealed
your own chapters are mute
illness, disappointment
fear of predictability

it's a small, a colorless truth;
you still love, still hopefully
dutifully water and weed
and thrill to pale shoots
a deciduous heart, bare for now,
awaits its ache

 

bookstore

squatting in the vegetation
hands full of leaves
another bit of green stuff
grafted into your grey matter
more pieces of a garden-to-be
germinating while you sip
a latte, decaf

senses

It's said that men fall with their eyes
For high foreheads, for quivering thighs
But a woman, one hears,
Is best wooed through the ears
With the tongue and with all it implies.

 

tenacity

i'm here! 'neath the bark!
your beak's persistent while i,
smug bug, burrow in.

 

gift

you are
the gift that keeps giving
the song that reminds me
the Tour d'Eiffel mug
every breakfast you made

the silly
uncharacteristically fussy
useless pillow
for which we found a use
i touch twice daily
making and
unmaking the bed

the toothpaste tube
plump in the middle
conspicuously missing
your thumbprint

the garlic,
the olive oil,
replaced three times as often
when you handled the wok

you are
the empty space in the air
where whistling should be
the empty space in my bed
that i bravely
diagonally ignore

 

blind ear

your days are full of music
deep and complex
a texture i only imagine
like standing at the edge of a lake
envisioning the creatures beneath
the patterns as light filters down
the interaction,
the dance of lake dwellers
the symbiosis, the synergy
the changing colors
hints of danger, peaceful grottos

you are full of what i cannot hear
another language
your fluency,
beautiful to my ears
and foreign
you kindly slow your phrasing
i pick out a word or two
your mind, your hands
full of music
skeins of sounds
you bend and weave

i cannot see the fabric fully
a texture, a complexity
but not the nuance
the humor of this tongue
how could i hope to be
a worthy audience
when your fineness
your subtlety goes unheard
and you, colorblind, unable
to dive into my painting

space

i create in quiet spaces
without expectations
no recipe or judgment

when the noise
and the naysaying
were in my head
it was hard to find room
for brush to swing freely
no space large enough
to thin
to dilute
to dim a critic's commentary

the brain pan instead
kept snidery close to the intuition
and the one would
besmirch and obscure the other
Tabasco on creme brulee

 

garden

in the garden i give freely
to things that don't ask
the quiet need is there
the process
the renewal

lips are relaxed there
theirs and mine
a leaf holds no tension
gesturing away from a stem

arugula, doing what lettuces do
the unfairylike behavior of fairy primroses
am i more me there
unpruned
unprunable
sans espalier
rooted
facing the sun

 

distraction

familiar, comforting.
well-polished pews,
the scent of the censer,
a spotlit atrium garden
through a wall of glass.

an organ unobtrusively,
unendingly threads the room
through l'eau de funeral
stock and mums.
breathing them in
deepens the memory.

faces pass, pained,
pink-nosed and wet-eyed.
the hunt for a handkerchief
in the back of a drawer
gleaned my grandmother's,
smelling of cedar.

see without watching
the line of friends,
old coworkers, family,
moving toward the casket.
quiet, thoughtful, alone,
or speaking softly
in twos and threes.

in the midst of it all,
his head,
the back of it,
a rain-spotted overcoat,
alone in the line.

something sad and tender
bit into my numbness
as i recognized his jaw.
hair, longer and wilder,
and the beard,
his head turned slightly,
pared to a goatee.
stock and mums
and the flavor of bay rum.

 

kinship

i fall in love with dogs
as individuals, one at a time
unlike cats, who i love as
graceful
bewhiskered
sleekit nap companions
personalities and voices
and thoughts all their own

i fall in love with dogs
their attentiveness
the need to take in all i do
the melting look when i speak
the nosing under my hand
for my precious touch

i fall in love with dogs
and i love
understand
and feel kinship with cats

 

sirens

There was a brave wanderer, Odysseus
Who savored the rare and delysseus
Thinking out of the box
Kept him off of the rocks
But he missed both the hugs and the kysseus.

 

 

kite

a girl jumps rope
and the essence -
coordination, social anxiety, math, rhyming - transports me
grade three
playground blacktop
the girls who were always
a wee bit better at everything

type-A personalities
about those seasonal pass-times
daughters of sporting goods magnates
or fathers-who-wanted-sons
who made sure no girl of theirs
was intimidated by anything physical

and me,
daughter of a father
who loved all sorts of music
who loved to laugh and
could tell me
the same story
again and again and i'd be
so tickled anticipating the punch line
dying to hear
- hey, kid, where's-a you pop -
as no one else delivered it

taking me for the marbles,
the jacks,
the slinky,
the silly putty i had to have
altering Sunday funnies with me
add a point to Sluggo's head
Dondi with flattened squinty eyes

always time to make the kite from scratch
to share with me
whatever he knew
about anything i asked about
to let me know
that he was never sorry
i was anything but a girl

 

 

 

pond

some piece of me
some part of me
wants to trust in lily leaves

an urge to stretch out
starts in the hip
travels down patella twitch
calf thinks long about
lifting toe forward toward
shiny flat leaf-collaged surface

certainly it will hold me
i'll glide, a faerie
a weightless crossing
to the untrod island
visit nesting waterfowl
know the secrets of
untouched reed and willow

 

canvas

you there,
noiseless
beckoning
thirsty
fill me, you say,
cover
douse
quench
hide me
save me
touch
tickle
enlighten
wrestle
mask
enrich me
leave me changed
improved
stratified with your impulses
your pulse left imprinted
take the tooth away
leave smoothness
and spent passion
raise questions and
answer them
kiss the shadow of my plainness
and bring me to life
breathe life
leave your touch
your palpable presence
carry me to a new place
higher, deeper, softly articulate,
take me and reframe me
and see in me a bit of a soul.

 

bridge

the grain of the granite
cold where it rasps my thighs
i bluff an exoskeleton
an edge to rasp back

we've felt the quake
the feet of sand on some
lousy foundation
a jiggling of systems
a self-doubt

the bridge reaches back
an anchor in the past
never burns itself
arcs over the flow below
never rinsing in renewal
in learning or growth

a foot forward
to the same spreading place
on the far bank
knowing where it's going
with its eyes closed

let me wade through
a broth of experience
and land on a new bank
fecund,
refreshed

 

conditions

gherkins on a paper plate
fruit on the oilcloth
mid-summer cornucopia
not the thanksgiving variety
that reminds of an uncle
overfilled dress pants
cinched high seen at holidays
not otherwise
an adventure
both to see him
and to hear the criticisms after
learning to love those around me
but not unconditionally
no safety in the caring
from that same source that
tucked me in each night
dangerous lullaby

 

pie

i would indulge myself
in an hour of baking
chopping
sprinkling
stirring
rolling
crimping
if i could be certain that
that would eclipse
remembering that you
who hated all-American-apple
would softly cajole me
into apricot or berry

would whine silently
with your posture alone
would wander out to watch
soccer en espanol entirely too loud goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool
how delicious is it
to have lost that obnoxious commentary
the trumpeting announcer
and your silent variety
and in their stead
tart and sweet
granny smith in my oven

 

moon two

chuckling, grinning
two damned fools,
two children
too old for such shenanigans
but here we are
astounded by the comfort

we've met the synergy
and it is us
time to have been somewhere
and known something
to have joy to give

i, dew, reflect and dampen
you, the moon
whole, sated
enlightened

 

 

 

talking stone

piece of pale blue lace agate
said to enhance communication
balanced on my throat
lying on the top bunk
sun close to breaking
the edge of the skylight

minutes from overwarm
close the eyes
hold quietly still
stone moves in tiny throbs
my pulse beneath

cool stone becoming warmer
sun creeps to skylight's center
one shoulder warming
squeezing out the light
red now through my lids
and blue on my neck

feeling less blue
taking on my own heat
resonating
communicating
saying steady now
just stay
good agate
there's a good agate
that's mommy's nice pretty blue agate

whether it will bring me
closer to telling my tale
speaking my truth
with humans is unknown
but we
the blue lace agate and I
have forged an understanding

 

locks and bagels

flat follicles
cause my hair
to be curlierthanthou's
and caused me sadness
when straight hippie hair
was the essence of beauty
when did i cross the threshold
and grow to love me locks
when did i have my
first bagel
was it really in college
how do you reach adulthood
without tasting a bagel
and mightn't
the bagel thing and
the loneliness of being the only
curlygirl in my circle both have been
addressed and resolved had i
had more Jewish friends?

 

a ghazal - decampment

we were happy except for your crazy ex
our world turned surreal by your crazy ex

comfort and laughter and perfect sex
late-night door-poundings, your crazy ex

patience was challenged, logistics complex
the brunt of the blows of your crazy ex

I've outlived,outlasted the chill effects
you've lost CurlyGirl, kept your crazy ex

 

studio

this office
this studio
this cocoon
the place where my cats visit me
when did i become comfortable
with the mixed functionality of my space
and how did books old and new
and works in progress
come to be friendly with
canvas and gesso and collage elements

my dry world
and my slippery spilly mucilagenous one
the one odorless but for
electronics and old paper
the other acrylic and glue and
clay and fabric and wood
the office sounding like
stylus on tablet
or a click
or keyboard rattle

the studio is
deer and bear hair
swept and tamped against paper and canvas
scissors biting cloth
whistling through foil
and the shared element
the common thread
is myself
silent and songful
contained and extroverted
strong and soft

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