The days shorten, light and leaves
go golden, and the haunting cries
of migrating geese float over the trees.
Our grey gander stands near the pond,
beak tipped to the sky. Other grey and white
heads lift, tilt to catch the receding notes.
Long after the rest have returned
to grazing, the gander remains
gazing north. He stretches his wings
and takes a few steps, as if calculating
the mechanics of the journey, then turns
back to resume his watch.
[I don’t want to make this a habit, but yesterday was Quite A Day, and I was too tired to post this.]
Constancy
There was a noise—a silence even—
that would not go away. What was the last thing
you searched for? It’s always the first
day of something, something ungraspable
and a little distorted, that draws back
whenever you begin to get close.
1
rise like a rocket
tell him to make his
own sandwich
2
pink glitter
what’s it good for ?
don’t paint your doll
face with pain
3
don’t be beautiful
be enormous
take up space… be on
the spectrum see the
world in kaleidoscope
March passed again,
and I did not trim back
the roses. They grow
lopsided and through
the porch railing,
prickly, blooming limbs
that brush the rocking
chairs. The lizards avoid
them, their heads periscopes
from ever-widening cracks
in the front porch. Paint
peels from railings I never
finished painting, and cats
watch it all from the living
room picture window.
Their noses streak the glass.
I understand the appeal
of curb appeal, but moved
here to avoid it. Now
Chip and Joanna Gaines
have infected the whole
neighborhood and Joe’s not
weird for obsessively
manicuring his rented lawn.
But I bet nobody else
on this block has volunteer
cucumbers maurading
the patch of garden they let
go wild this year. Isn’t that
a wonder: maurading
volunteer cucumbers!
Honeysick and aching,
Ages, years ago,
you gifted me a tiara,
all spun silver and ivory gems
(the kind you could afford then,
but I didn’t and don’t mind)
like you knew I preferred to gold.
I hope you forgive that a gem
(or two) has eased its way out,
that the worn metal bends where
there once were sloping lines,
that nearly every crevice dons dust,
that the weight of your gift has graced
my head only a handful of times.
I’m not really one for
frilly dresses or twinkling tiaras,
but please know that yours sits
as a scintillating star on my highest shelf,
glowing overhead so that
its presence may soothe me.
So that when I look upon the stars,
I recall your beloved tiara,
this motif of endless, shimmering silver.
The summer wind stirring leaves above
sounds like applause.
Arms raised, I am
victorious for one moment
having survived this long long life
Behind the skull
Cell memory
Instinct
fear always seeks a gap
towards the back of the line
At my heels a strained unfolding cloth
leaks fraying tenacious threads
And in front of my tongue an unattainable
nectar beckons in teaspoonfuls
of sweet Justice.
Do you know the taste
of the risks
we take, hurling madly with ignorant desires
onto these unmitigated shores?
