all the weapons
i’m fighting
off sleep
and the
demons in the dark–
a cage
clamping down.
this rage,
ripe for the harvest–
i taste it, too.
i’m fighting
off sleep
and the
demons in the dark–
a cage
clamping down.
this rage,
ripe for the harvest–
i taste it, too.
These old woods
are a thick wildness
the many mysteries
of all its dangerous parts
pulling together
where the strong beams
of nature’s fine architecture
are easily revealed
life is tied together at the roots,
beating as one heart,
the quick pulse of an old forest
What mysteries unfold
in the rich depths of the dark woods
where the stones fall down
the hillside like a staircase
inviting the all too curious hiker
upward and deeper in
birds, bugs, and life
in its chaotic kinetic fire-rich pulse
sings its living song
stand still, hold your breath, listen,
you can hear the movement of the still places
in between the shadows and undergrowth
holding all those trees up
tying them down with roots
When the creek bed is dry,
each stone a stair step
up, up, up,
into the wildness
where the tumble of creek rocks
roll down the hillside
shadows and the cool part of the day
tucked in between the trees
sunlight is a prism,
the leaves cutting it into manageable slices
Thick, rich, undergrowth
to hold up the heights
of all those tall tress
the strong roots to bind them
this is the architecture of nature
sunlight reaches through the leaves
the woods grows wild here
Sometimes Abisha will remind me that she misses
our old cheese master, Becky.
And the lights above us blink an answer.
She and another manager
no longer alive have shadow boxes in our cheese shop:
Pictures, jackets, momentos of connection.
I believe we’ve learned the proper offerings:
for Becky, herb d’affinois. Maybe a baguette
and some roasted red tomato.
For Brett, who sang praise of the muffaletta
and talked about horseradish-
Why not horseradish cheddar and muffaletta?
I can’t recall if he liked bread cheese, too,
but he’s the type who loved to man a grill.
Of Jesse, we remember what he did not want
by way of cheese offerings:
he didn’t like the cambozola blue. No,
he wouldn’t have blue at all but he
had a passion for songs, classic rock,
and dogs, especially Pizza and Garnet.
To honor means sometimes
to honor what is unwanted:
Jesse wouldn’t want
for us to fear our own ghosts.
the time she loved me back, against
our better judgment, then disappeared
the following week. one could not
know of us, not our only ones, and
water wouldn’t wash the taste away.
not the salt of cerulean ocean floors.
my sea sick sometime maritime through
my door,
and every hint, every flushed cheek, and
conversation lay in a bright, seducing
light, and i blushed, blushed i did to find her
so.
we were not alone when her true eyes met
mine.
the sea star kissed me back
and
gone to-morrow, ohhhh
i feel a little sea sick,
and
the salty water doesn’t wash
the taste of you away,
in every single stitch, and
every single thread, love
marred, i ah i burn to find
you.
perhaps that is why
i’ll never see you again…
another door again, then my shriveling
denim in
a hot blanching wash,
the usual
baptism of a searing 110℉ El Paso day,
the priest
took a thin pyx out of his pocket,
said
christ is the plank, she is the ship, let me
show you the way.
i stayed awhile on deck
looking for the love written in the book of
your eyes,
lingering there, waiting for you, and then
there was not much more of that.
we pour that we know into wine skins.
we carry those ruddy grapes and smash them,
what we are with us all of the time, yes ma’am
yes’am
yes’am i am.
the dawn’s upon. it’s time to rise—
to wash my young face, dress myself, open my eyes
and pass ‘cross the jamb of the door on to old spain.
i can breathe in andalucía,
down in the port of santa maria.
yes, and i’d take a long drink to old lovers,
not knowing
how i made them,
or how long to stay this year—
with my cousins áfrica, oscar, perico
we’ll toast in gibraltar,
play song in the fair nearby at la linea—
dancing, clapping, ringing the midnight chimes
into disrepair.
i’m finding it hard to write anything else about you.
does that mean you’re not mine to be inspired by? did i give you all the words i had when i gave you everything else?
To sketch or paint
a proper egg
darken the middle
Painters call this core shadow
where light ends & shadow begins
I was 21 & he came from behind
sweat-soaked shirt tied over my face
made dusk even darker
Mona Lisa’s face & décolletage
would not appear lustrous or pearly
if not for the sludge-hued
shading just under her sharp jaw
He beat me with the sharp
heel of his work shoe
a new tincture of dark
Night of near-death
scabs & crusted blood
police reports & mugshots
I burned my clothes
Saved three clods of mud
that were stuck to my jeans
in a gold lacquer box
For 25 years I left
the lights on at night
& still there’s quicksand
in my body’s memory
Sometimes I can’t move
I forget to breathe
the undertow overwhelming
it pulls me into the black center
like wet cement
An artist knows it takes time to learn
what greatly illuminates
It is critical to include the blackest
part of the shadow
I tell myself it’s only a whirlpool dream
& wake up before the concrete thickens
My muscles remember
there are good reasons to move
Move for the sweet smell of gumbo
simmering on low
for the dark garden dirt
for the shadow that ignites
& reveals light
I speak like a child
Blows the fuzz
Off a dandelion:
Clumsily, with abandon,
As if the weeds are infinite
Between where I stand
And the backyard fence.
Behold my path
Of botanical destruction
And feel the sinking
That comes with knowing
All is spent.
More will grow, of course.
They will be spent
Just as quickly,
Just as carelessly,
Without a wish.
Pine Mountain Cemetery XV
Mag Bailey
Put eighty thousand people in a valley,
Give them hard work in deep mines
And families with gaggles of kids to raise.
Then for some unjustified reason draw
Alcohol restricted lines along the base
Of the encircling mountains, dry, dry.
Human beings bear a genetic weakness
For numbing various aches and pains
Or swirling in a happy fog on good days.
Let me introduce you to Mag Bailey, bearer
Of an elixir to ease that human need,
Moonshine, bonded and bottled, beer etc.
All available. In truth the law winked being
Of the species that needed her help, too.
She never cheated, she didn’t get rich. In
Fact from the looks of her and her rusty truck,
You would be sure she was homeless or
Worse. House burn down? Your man’s back
Broke by overhang slate, bank close on you?
More times than is recorded, an envelope, grimy
Used twice or more, appeared on your porch.
Children ate, coats bought, shoes on feet, gas in
The tank, milk for baby. Few ever caught her at it,
Those hidden kindnesses that saved your dignity.
No fancy stone over there, just a jagged slab
Covers a heart bigger than her stout body could
Hide from the neighbors she saw and saved.
Margaret. We should sing her name aloud,
Lift marble to save her memory for man.
We won’t and she would be that grateful.
What she did she did for reasons buried
Deep as her gray coffin buried there. Her
Secret safe right there with her for eternity.
