whistle, pines on wind,
and you were all my loving.
the flame stirs no more.
no more the fragrant attar,
no more your graceful waters.
in pain, naked frost.
bone deep pain, old bone, thrown out.
i see jonquils, then
the hungry dog outside, then
pain cancels all my reasons.
Gnawing and gnashing his pointed canines
the fox either frees himself from the steel
jaws or amputates his limb.
Caught in this trap, she will amputate
part of who she could be
not seeing her uniqueness while
aching to be someone else.
Comparing apples to oranges,
kittens to puppies, rubies to
emeralds.
When will she recognize her
own rough cut diamond?
Out of the Box
Decades of my life disappear into one box
that multiplies when my back is turned, turn to building blocks
of cardboard to hold what think important. Each tier mocks —
somewhere in there are blue coral from I sea I can’t recall, rocks
that echo a canyon wren’s song keys to locks
of houses I no longer own, more keys to old clocks
that no longer run. Do their gears move slowly, their tocks
still tick beneath layers of sweaters, thick blankets, matchless socks?
Would I hear a rustle behind corrugated walls if my little clay fox
flicked his cupped ears toward the snow geese flocks
that web white contrails overhead. Will bittersweet vine fill crocks
of brown pottery beside some new-to-me door, as I wait for the knocks
of neighbors to say Welcome to your home! Is this sorting a blessing or pox?
I might find the answer in this one last box.
Where the road curves toward the lake
there’s a hobby farm where they raise
miniature ponies, llamas & alpacas.
In May, the furry beasts amble like happy
old men on the rolling land, which is now blanketed
with yellow wildflowers & patches of hay.
I’m reading a book of Chinese poetry
from the Tang dynasty. So many images of earth,
animal, & sky — full moon, fragrant pine,
rivers, mountains, wind & rain. Horses
& resting birds. In June, my neighbor
shears the thick coats of the alpacas,
leaving nothing unshaven but their fluffy
heads. If a field of new flowers could applaud.
If small black ponies could laugh.
don’t write. ain’t written. mimics
#12 hanging there, suspended
mind whirling about in whorls of gloom
like a fever dream during twilight sleep
in the twilight zone as croce belts
don’t you know that i gotta get outta here
’cause where poet finds herself
is not, will not be her home
poet dreams so lucid swears she
astral projects, could lick desperation
offa dead man’s guitar strings
taste it on her tongue even as it bleeds
travel to 9-20-73, cup the beechcraft
airplane in her right palm, raise it high
above that murderous pecan tree, send
ol’ jim to sherman to sing another song
You are crumbling
A monument once so sturdy
Falling to pieces
The deterioration I can’t help but noticing
The crippling of your hands
The slipping of your tongue
The static of your brain, once infrequent now overtaking your thoughts
You won’t remember this conversation
There’s already so many that have faded
Nonexistent into the void that you are slowly becoming
We mention who’s to blame
But you wave our worries away
Unable and unwilling to accept what you are becoming
The groves we wandered through
in our youth
have all begun to bleed into
one another,
and I no longer know whether
the brook
is safe to wade in or if we’ve stepped
past safety,
into the outstretched arms of private
property, where
two kids threatened to fill our bodies
with holes,
said we’d never be heard from again.
Back then,
I still hadn’t learned how to use my voice,
didn’t know
that the burning in the back of my throat
was shame
begging to break the shackles of silence.
I’m indebted
to that spitfire savior, the firecracker
that stood
face-to-face with fear, danced
with danger,
and showed us how to navigate a world
of wayward woodlands
and ill intentions.
I am writing
this poem because
I want a catalpa tree in it.
Not because
catalpa trees are stunning—
with their immense twisty trunks and branches,
broad green leaves—heart-shaped,
clusters of white flowers with tiny orchid-like throats.
The Arbor Foundation says of catalpas:
“How could you not
stop
to take it in.”
No, I want to put a
catalpa tree
into this poem because of
the sound it makes when you say it:
catalpa tree.
Those hard sounds—that C that T that L—
Did I mention the dangling seed pods—smooth pale green
longer than a giant green bean?
Better than those long lengthy mysterious seed pods—
the popping sound of “pah” at the end,
only one vowel used 3 times, pronounced differently
as the word moves forward to the right,
rather than moving upward toward th sky.
Ending with the earthy hum: treeeeeee
Oh say it—slowly, whisper it—now, cut into it—be LOUD
Catalpa tree!
a field of soybeans
laid out before me
the creek twisting
through the trees
i have grass
in my pocket
and a singular clover
and a dried up leaf
it’s innocent,
care-free, and beautiful
