Spiritus Sanctus
Pentecost Sunday
all the fires burned
thick and sweet,
smoke filled the narthex,
puffing from the thurible
through cutouts the shape
of dreams.
A roly-poly runs across
a burning log in our fire pit.
My son tries to save it,
his fingers not quite quick
enough on the scorching log.
The bug darting to its death to evade him.
I sit on on my stump watching as
shadows drape over our yard,
sun sinking behind the hills,
a gasp escapes his lips in the
glimmer of light left just on his face.
It all boils down to the nightie.
To an image seared in my mind,
implanted by your cackle & self-deprecating glee.
Because – I wasn’t there.
Oh, no.
I mean, thank god, I wasn’t there.
That’s a memory for lovers.
But, in my mind,
I
see
you
running.
Bare feet hitting the soft sandy earth.
Legs baby-free in the pitch-black breeze.
Dad running after you, same bare feet, same baby legs.
And the frogs.
Lord in heaven, the frogs!
I can hear their merciless chirping.
The relentless symphony swelling in late night air
as you force the crescendo,
each frog exiting.
<thump thump thump> of your feet.
From pond – to the woods.
From pond – to the woods.
And, clear as a bell, your laughter rings.
One frog at a time.
In nothing but a nightie.
And, oh how you loved him!
In memory of Kathryn Withenbury
I followed the winding thread of sleep,
waded through the inky depths of hazy fatigue,
never finding its fabled end.
The foggy black of my lidded eyes
never dissolved to reveal my untamed dreams.
Perhaps the unspoken poetry
tapping its beak against my caged skull
kept me awake,
pacing my wandering mind,
waiting to unfurl its word-scrawled wings
and soar into the boundless page.
There must be euphoria, to fall out of prescriptions, and onto the street
To dazzle and bring the traffic to a halt. Brief moments of quiet through
The endless summer, without yearning without wanting anything, but now.
How silly would it be to wish away my queerness?
What do you mean tragic?
What do you mean grave?
This is the fantasy you haven’t had the chance to dream yet.
We don’t dream of petty escapes,
We addle in the lap of belonging.
Our stories won’t sit quivering in the corner.
Erase us?
We’ve challenged god
Simply by being here,
We can take care of his little pawns.
Picture me-
The lustrous devil, in a corset, dancing over fire, adding Pluto back to the solar system.
There must be stories where we take up space.
In your boardroom
In your artsy films
And your not so artsy films.
We will not pitifully cling
To your morsels of kindness.
Why would I center my story on coming out
When it’s you who pushed me in there?
I will center my gorgeous lover
Who’s eyes shine like stars.
I will center the ecstasy of having my boobs hidden enough
And of becoming who I am.
Like covers me with deep brown emeralds
and ties down my leaves
to wait for a new spring
My bright yellow flowers
bruised brown by rain
rot in the rusty ground
Rubber bands anchor my throat
and stifle my doomed soul
to germinate a nice clean dead
for a new spring’s lusty garden
shove soap down my throat to teach me a lesson
like you used to do with your fingers
when i was your good girl
That first morning,
She put on her blue linen dress,
The one with the big pockets,
And she walked,
Picking up shells.
Occasionally, glancing back
To the hotel
Where the brand new husband
She did not love
Slept snoring.
She promised herself,
When her pockets were full,
She’d return.
And she did.
Each day,
She walked.
Each day,
She picked up fewer shells
Along the way,
Giving herself permission
To cover more sand,
Leaving the hotel and husband,
Further in the distance.
On the final day
Of her honeymoon,
She did not pocket
A single carapace.
She simply walked.
Walked,
Until the hotel and husband
Were out of sight,
Out of mind,
Out of heart.
She walked,
Until the island ended.
And kept walking,
Down the shore,
Past the waves,
And straight into the ocean.
To feel 6 years old again,
Swimming under the pontoon
Like we’re spies planning a sneak attack
Wrapped in a towel at sunset
Exhausted but knowing I just had the best day ever,
No priorities, no worries
Promising friends, cold drinks
Snack foods and bare skin
The hot sun and waving at passing boats
A new man (much older
than you) tells me that, truthfully,
you saying that you loved me
means nothing
I want alcohol, but I opt
for cheap coffee
I hope your new lover
doesn’t annoy you, sits patiently
while you cook & doesn’t stare
at you too long
You wanted it both ways
& chose the other way
