Here you are, sun revelation.
There you are, skin guilt.
I stretch my legs, all
capillaries, mosquito bites, bumps, and fuzz
and want to hide them – no gold glow
or window warmth for their imperfection.
To love myself is to change the accent
on a language I already speak,
to let my body soak up
the unjudging sunlight.
Here you are, chipped toenail polish.
There you are, carefree weather.
she sits quietly, nothing yet to say
beige dress, smoothed edges
cold and metallic, warmed
by my fingertips
her features pale and harsh
when she speaks it’s only for you
she has no thoughts of her own
or maybe Asimov knew
she glides across
clickity clack clickity clack clack clack
the soundtrack of her indelible path
the music of my thoughts
intuition brought her to me
my new, old Royal
auction
two bucks
annie rose
her spirit
is that of a woman who knows she’s closer to death than her younger self
she paints with life giving corals and wild abandon yellows
all muddied on the canvas with red flower tiles
she’s fighting and letting go all at once
wearing all of her favorite things together even that gaudy ring no one else wanted
do you see the sparkle in her eyes
do you see the chemo killing all the cancer
and her bones carrying her frame more upright
she moves me
this woman
she moves the earth
and draws us all magnetic to her side
Young Rabbit
I see the half-grown rabbit
when I mow.
It darts in and out
of the Iris no longer in bloom,
gone the colors, purple or white.
The race has been a game
until recently.
Last night, I look out and see
it, content in my late garden, tame
beneath the neighbor’s streetlight,
feasting. Young plants meet their doom.
It does no good for me to shout
from the open kitchen window.
Tomorrow, I will replant, for that rabbit
to enjoy, no longer cute like it was, darting through Iris.
What delight greets me
For Granted
Caught up in self importance
I fail to see the billion suns in the midnight sky
in my narrow field of concern and sorrow
I fail to feel the warmth of the breeze on my skin
who is this robber of vision and sensation
where are the flames of wisdom and gratitude
to melt the cell bars
there’s a bitch in heat up the road
and i can’t keep my damned hound dog
at the damned house.
it ain’t a metaphor.
it’s a pitiful pain in the ass.
she’s whimpering and bleeding
and begging for the most primal contact
and i’m slipping through the slick weeds
to steal away her suitor.
before daybreak.
by force.
the chain link between them
don’t keep him from the scent of her
and i swear he’d break his neck
for a chance to get all tangled up again.
A dozen more for the endless dunes of blood and sand
as if there was a shortage of salt water in this country
as if we needed another reason to hide in underground
bunkers it is not enough to say I am tired of my news feed
running red it is not enough to cross my legs and close
my eyes and think of calm and pleasant tides classes
without tourniquets work days without gunshots
we have turned a blind eye until there is nowhere left to turn
and if my three-year-old son hits the dog
over her head with a whiffle-ball bat and
then does it again and again and again
at some point I’m to blame for her pain
for not taking the bat away until he knows
how to use it or better yet throwing it into
the oven and handing him a bouquet of
Kentucky wisteria to hold against his chest
as the plastic melts under the broiler
America when I think of our colors red and white and blue
I no longer think of a flag rippling in a stiff wind instead
I see a wall of squad cars around a cold public building
an office park an elementary school a softball field
a movie theater a main thoroughfare in Vegas another
school another school a night club the streets of Paris
another school all the time barking thoughts and prayers
all the time screaming for hope and change with passion
and fury signifying nothing a fortnight of debate
until the next chance to weep calls for lit candles and
lotus positions falling on ears deafened at a firing range
you say you could never love anyone
you couldn’t
kill with your bare hands.
that you can’t help but love
a good love poem,
but when you say love I think
you actually mean sex. you say
they’re the same thing, they’re the same thing
as if to speak it twice
will somehow make it true. listen: I know the difference
between my uncertain heart and this body
which always knows
exactly what it wants.
