i see the perverted men
watching for
waists under 28 inches
and hips far larger
fitting perfectly in
summery bikinis
but not too perfectly
for if it doesn’t fit the girl
they might get a peek
i hope the rain
from my tears
ruins their objectification
makes it no longer a topic of
their mindless conversations
that their gaze looks elsewhere
like the wet poolside
the divers on the board
or their children splashing around
Gentle path light my way
My existence, my soul to take
Let the trees tell my stories of old
Greet my choices, let me be bold
My footsteps to be warm and long
The decisions to find me for I am strong
May love cover everything within myself
Dust the cobwebs inside my mind’s shelf
Rediscover hope when there is none
Make all tall tales of me when breaths are done
When doubt discovers my location
A sense of kindness, blooms my creations
If I am lonely, grant me a choice
To where others hear anthems within my voice
Lastly to steady my friends when they have drown
My actions to help them not be lost but found
Love in all corners
Stronger together
Memory is the moment
Music turns solid
Something you can hold
Like a hand
As you walk
Into the silence
Torn: a photograph
Your accusatory wedding gown lurks in my closet
calling up my loser’s excuses, my shadow justification
for the death of it all.
Our last time together my accidental striped shirt
accused you in turn, volleying back my pain when
the final chance was jaggedly torn asunder.
Your abandoned image in a photograph, held
in a trembling hand, seen with vacant eyes,
reaching back for an autographed memory…
Are you offering someone new your grudging affection?
Or did you lose your feminine path like a child’s lunch
left on the bus? I wish I knew.
Sitting on the patio at a café in Tel Aviv.
Round, black lacquer tables, wicker café chairs,
colorful umbrellas.
Young, skinny panted, tight t-shirted hipsters
drink espresso, eat croissants, talk politics.
A dog nibbles crumbs off the ground.
A white haired, wrinkle faced man sits alone,
sipping tea from a glass.
He rolls up his sleeve, revealing
a faded number tattooed on his wrist.
There are no longer
echoes of your rhymes
even in my memory
of them.
They rode off on the wind.
They reached a point
when they were so far away
that I had to cup my fingers
around my ears to hear them fade.
I stood beneath wind chimes,
my feelings alive for you
and etched in lines I thought would
never cease.
How elusive time is.
Rain fell on me
in sunshine.
There is a saying about that.
It echoes from the canyons of my past.
It has my grandfather’s soft voice.
I call out sick and drive my jeep East
windows down and stereo off
I get lost on this familiar route and hum along to the rhythm of the tires
“bum, bum” in the right lane of a freshly paved route 6
until I reach the Hudson River overlook
I park my car beneath a massive oak tree and wonder how it survived all the war and
domestic terror that natural habitats endure
I envy its stability
Traffic whirrs in the distance and I imagine the people in those vehicles are
frustrated and hungry and exhausted and still rushing to answer capitalism’s call
I couldn’t answer so I let it go to voicemail
I’ll check it later unless I don’t
A slight breeze rustles the oak’s leaves and I take a seat at a weathered picnic table
The seat wobbles and the table’s legs shift with me because we both suffer from
imbalances
that have not yet been corrected
that may not need to be corrected
that may never be corrected
that will not be corrected
that are correct
We find center together and listen to the birds chirp
A squirrel bounces playfully and a spider floats along its self-made silk
The river moves swiftly below the tranquil surface
Its current will sweep trash, microorganisms, vegetation, and pennies
with children’s wishes
I observe and take deep breaths imagining that I will swim to the bottom and find
the coins with ambitions too burdensome for the river to keep
