Perform when the
moon is in Leo to gain the generosity of others.
Perform on a
Sunday in the hour of Venus.
Accentuate with a
rattle or drum,
let Michael raise it,
the Queen of Angels speak it,
Raphael inspire it,
Sandalphon pray it,
Uriel strengthen it,
Watchers protect it,
Yahriel place the glory of the moon on it,
let Zodiac angels seal it,
and Spirit bring it through time and space.
Windwhipped prophecy shutters through unseasonably chill air,
Careening like a swollen knuckle punchline;
I can taste the words on bleeding tonguetip,
But it remains catcaught by the very thought.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve learned to speak,
Or even the second or third,
But when the ashes between my teeth come unfettered this time,
They will tell of something of enormous Grace.
The life of the world to come,
Quieted before countless swords,
And two shaky flaming hands beneath.
I pick up every one—
Every penny I see, shining or wear-dull—
Heads or tails.
Even bad luck
Means movement.
I do not
Resist change.
Raised in the shadows of Black Mountain
a claggy holler of Harlan County,
she grew up fierce on a diet of coal dust,
the tough love of pull yourself up by the britches,
and the mantra of never feel sorry for yourself
even when all things seem precarious.
At 80, she’s razor-sharp and headstrong —
mows the lawn,
cleans the church,
cares for the sick,
and feeds empty bellies.
Even today when the neurologists told her
that her eyesight was forever gone,
she swallowed one breath of sorrow,
and then that grit
came bubbling up from deep inside.
And with a, “Well, I guess that’s that,”
she started making plans
to not be a burden on anyone else.
hands raised
in worship.
legs splayed
to do the same.
there are pieces
of you missing
and you are
pulled in twain.
your voice is gone.
your light
has dimmed.
your name
has been
replaced.
the smile
splits wide
at what
he’s done
and tears
stream
down
my face.
Sometimes I talk about this dream like a place you could go ?
You can wind up there, anyhow.
My intuition rejects everything now.
I’m reconciling that while catching
The world repeating itself,
Repetitive mechanics I thought we could avoid.
We were young and beautiful,
And we had something better than love-
We had friendship.
That in itself is a kind of fortress
Maybe All of this is more than repetition.
Maybe it’s something more rare –
a second chance ..
He was doing a little more coke at the office
Than either of us were comfortable with
We combined our efforts to buoy him up
I know you loved him the best
After we left that apartment
We pushed the piano
That you two would sit and get whacked on heroin at
Into the street and he broke it apart w a crowbar.
Instead of that giving me pause
I thought it was a good sign ?
Everything was like a beacon of righteousness
If you knew where to look.
implied by perfect lawns stretching between carefully tended hedges, you’re most likely to reach a palace and all the wealthy comforts that suggests. It’s not the worst of choices, having a full belly as you prepare for a dry bed. Turn around, and you’ll see the woods, a dark path twisting somewhere undefined through taller trees than any fairy tale ever proposed, where there could be wolves, salivating at the thought of tender youth, or a clearing with a witches hut and its waiting oven. Or maybe the wolves are sent to guide you to a mage’s rooms, a home-school full of wonders so unlike those of a rich man’s towers. It’s your choice, of course, but from here, nearer the end of my days than you to the start of yours, I know which way I’d take.
Delving into the old boxes—
my mother’s left things—
we find the photo
finger worn and faded.
A riotous background,
maybe California,
all gush and bloom.
Her hair dark music
flowing thin shoulders.
Lips plump scarlet
in dazzled excitement.
She is haloed inside
the hug of a man
whose smile echoes hers.
He is not our father.
We pause in her passing,
romanticize a wartime affair,
him not making it home,
she despairing.
Invent some Romeo
and Juliet narrative
cleaving that paradise.
Too many questions.
No one left to ask.
Consider this:
hidden in a jewelry box,
the back of a cluttered closet,
the pocket of an old flannel shirt,
do we all, in our deeper hymns,
hoard some pondered keep,
some ravished heart
of what might have been?
the dead are not as gone as we think
nor as quiet – their bones rattle us
when we least expect – early
asparagus in the produce aisle, the vigorous
bowing of a double-bass, pipe smoke
drifting from an open window
no incantation can settle our minds’
restless associations, the constant
monkey quest for pattern – past and present
overlaid until the light that shines
through or the shadows that fall
between trigger recognition
