Poetry
All of This for Nothing
Was I always soluscious? Did I gleam andripple, without adornment, likethe sparkling sea?Every cell in my bodydancing! Shiningfrom the inside witha light that comes fromnowhere.Pinned to the momentlike a butterfly, no longer anywhereelse to go. Candle flickering insidemy heart, breath of my childbreathing me. Heartthickly laden with invisible fruit, joybeaming from my eyes.Something broke inside, something laid down,exhausted from the struggle, anddied. Whatever I gavemyself to then has floweredinside andtaken over, turningmy home into night sky.I cannot tellyou, where I have gone,where I am going. As the darknesstook me, the road disappearedbehind, and ahead,nothing.Only walking through now and alwaysnow. All of thisfor nothing! With the entire universelovemakinginside me, I have stoppedasking anyonefor anything.
Out of Necessity
Love: a blaze.
Your fears: damp
kindling. You cannot resist
throwing them in, one
by one, gazing.
Bold one, quaking
one--you long
for me. It is nothing
personal. Your deepest
winks back from
my depths, reflected.
Resting in the blaze
of being, know this: Love
cannot be taken
from you. Loved
always, loving
always, I am not loving
you.
I am Love,out of necessity, completinga circle.
Limitless and Yours
At night beside me you
wake with a cry and
find me. Feathery hair, sweet
milky breath, bare and
earnest desire--you
press your soft warmth againstmy belly and drink
from me the food
you need.
Deeper and deeper you
drink, first just milk, then persistently
you find my insides and drinkthem too, and you keepgoing.
I don't pull away, though my body
aches for privacy. My daughter--
I want you to know an earth, a life,a night that is broad and
rich and
deep; limitless, andyours.
Three times you
finish, only to find me again in
the dark, grabbing
my breast with hungry
mouth and
tiny hands.
Then finally, you sleep--arms thrown
over your head; face upward to
the sky. Your lips part, and
my breast is free.
Quietly, I
retreat, to the small cool
bed in the spare room. I slip
into the down, wrap
the shell of my backbone around
my soft middle, and curl
into the dark,alone.
Let's Dance
Look!
For the momentyour bonesare clothed in flesh.Let's dance.
All
passing headlights
flash, your one eye
lit, blue, penetrating; the other
a glintbut dark.the same, perhaps, asthe meteor that streamedblue fire, then gone, then fireagainthen gone.i amthe night.you saythings to me, throughme. my cellsare listening inthe form of waving leaves,streetlamps, a lonelimping drunk.
i want it allyou say. whatis alli ask. good questionyou say.did you answer?
what is lightis light,what is dark,is light.that is all.
Hood River Retreat
fluttering prayer
flags, tenderly
offered. so threadbare, the
sky shows
through.
now blowing
banner-like...
there is
a victory
here
I do
not
own.
God Loves Artichokes
God loves artichokes. She
peels each leaf, dipsit into the salty sauce oftears, scrapes the goodstuff off on herbottom teeth and tossesthe leaf into thecompost.
God likes the heartsbest, and usually draws outthe leaf-eating,reveling in the slow, deliciousunfolding of the heart.God doesn't mindthe spiny stuff just beforethe heart. She carefullypicks it away, not wanting todamage the heart, which sheadmires, theneats whole.Sometimes, unpredictable as God is,and lacking manners completely,God will takeher two thumbs, plunge them directlyinto the center, ripthe artichoke in half, and greedilyeat the heart, spines andall, in a couplemessy gobbles.
Something She Will Show
My mother shakes
with her left hand. She
hides the other
during photographs.
Two fingers, one flat, wide
and short, one like a
piggy-toe, and her hand, slender
in its odd grace, wrapped
in a pocket.
I'm sorry said
her mother to
her father in the white
hospital room. I couldn't even
give you a
whole child.
An unholy nun
demanded my mother
hold a flower high in an Easter
parade like
everyone else. As if the world
truly offers the softness of
a pocket, as if the others
were willing to carry their
vulnerability aloft for all
to see.
My daughter will use the hand
of her choice
said her mother, and so she marched
with the hand she shakes with, the hand
she will show.My mother bears
her vulnerability, and therefore her
beauty visibly and with
courage. I ache for
the touch of that
banished hand on
my face
for the special grace
not of this world
that lives
in her fingers.
I want a parade and
I want it in church
with my mother at the lead and
holding her hand aloft
in my own I will
sing: This
is my mother, these
are her fingers, isn't she
lovely?
And following will be
a stream of
women, each of usshowingthe partwe most liketo hide.
Send/Rcv
For Ken Sawyer aka CowboyTonight I sent a poemto you, wondering.I like to think of you, yourstraight black poleof a ponytail, like a trapper,a brave, your heavyeyebrows, your latestquest, questions,your trying hard,your takingyour life.
So far no message sayingno such email account.I like to think it got there.I like to think of my poemglowingin the spam that will never bedeleted.Did you knowI sat near as youwent on and on, whispering
here, here, here,
holdingyour drawling sweetnessclose to me?THIS ISA WARNING MESSAGEONLYYOU DO NOT NEED TO RESENDYOUR MESSAGE.Warning: message stillundeliveredafter 4 hours.Will keep trying untilmessage is5 days old.Sometimes we are cradledpowerfullyand we cannotfeel it.Sometimes milk flows sosweetly fromthe breastof the heavensand wecannotdrink.
God's Favorite Waitress
I want to be God'sfavorite waitress. Whenhe comesin the door, Iwant himto ask for me. Whenhe wantssomething,I want himto ask meto get it. I don't carewhat it is. AndI don't carehowhe asks.
I wantto spend my lifeperfecting my approach. Warmsmile, gracious welcome, sweet,unhurried manner.I want himto feel likehe's my onlycustomer.When my car breaksdown in the middle of the night withmy young daughter asleepin the back seat, I knowit's another chanceto capturehis heart.
I ask, what will it beGod? What canI bring youfrom the kitchen? A meetingwith a friendly stranger? Hoursof waitingin the dark? Or a long alert walkon this cold, moon-less night?You tell me.
I'll go get it.
Date
you drive a longway to see me. i pausebefore opening the door, breathingand standing with myself, as if to saygoodbye to something.no rent in the fabric of the pause yet imust have moved to see you nownot a word, or not a memorable onenor do i remember the door closingto the coldstanding close enough to feelour hands softly on each otherstanding, so unhurriedletting the nectar awakened by thisseep into every ready cell.walking, past latilla fences, lonely dogs,slow cows,hips joined, steps measured, holding hands togethernew. sometimes i am hidingbehind my hair,sometimes i am holding my faceup, tipping back for the feel of the sun.
Your Real Mother
You wakefor a moment andlook at me as ifyou do not knowme.
This sweet game weplay, where I amthe mother, and you arethe child isonly good whilewe're awake.For as soonAs your head growsheavy, I can hearyour real Mothercalling youhome.
Streaming Beggars
Now that you have movedinto my heart, takenthe doors off their hinges andremoved the windows,glass, sash andallbeggars are coming fromeverywhere foryour sweet embrace.The beggars stream in fromevery direction--walking, running, crawling,rolling and being carried. The neighborshave stoppedscreaming about it. At first they hadplenty to say but afterweeks and weeks of this theyknow there is nohelping it. This is beyondcity ordinances.Soon they will be comingthemselves, droppingrakes, dog leashes, clothespins,leaving cars runningin the street, for a glimpseof your holy face.What am I to do butwatch in awe at the blessedvariety of your creation, the myriad wounds,the incredible stories, the way they gatheraround the door quiveringwith the certain knowledge that finallyno onewill be turned away.
And stay in the housemaking meals, and carryingsheets up and down the stairs.