it rest folded just so
when I lift it from the arm I tell myself to note its shape
this gentle drape means something
so I take it up with care cover the shivering limbs
and feel my heart reach out a bit further
tenderly attentive to this borrowed place
When you tighten under pressure,
know valves are meant to release.
There are a million tender cells
begging to loosen your grip.
It’s easy to forget, how much easier it may be
to follow the pumping thumping beat.
Consciousness sees
what the sand crab sees
with its two little beady eyes
atop antennae
The sand crab gives
what it sees to God
and God, without hesitation,
whispers Thank You
A few neighbors and I were standing in the road
talking while our kids shot baskets
on one of those portable goals
you can raise as they grow.
We were chatting, encouraging the kids on,
when a large bird fell out of the sky
onto my lawn. Some kind of hawk,
it stood there screeching, flapping its wings
but unable to lift off.
I hurried inside the house and grabbed a beach towel
to wrap it in, thinking there were vets and rescues
that cared for raptors — by the time I came back to it,
the bird was dead, ridged claws clutching clumps of grass.
The neighbor who knew birds best
declared it a falcon, peregrine likely, likely juvenile.
Probably poison.
And for the first time in forty years,
I thought of my childhood friend, Frank Miles,
how there toward the end he wore a knit cap,
even on a warm spring day, to hide what the chemo
had done to him. Never grew up, never got old,
dead at age eleven, not fully grown —
how he turned to me while we sat
in the dugout watching the good players
on our team take their turns at bat, Frank,
the honorary mascot, asked through eyes
that were wiser and wetter than my own,
the one question I still don’t have an answer for.
Woman,the word between us
Today I will not contemplate my father’s
mortality. Kendrick croons through my
earbuds, I solid promise beneath a
heartbeat drum, We gon’ be alright.
All my life I had to fight—
and in every life my father has been
a soldier; a psychic once told him
he had defended Rome in battle,
and though I don’t believe
in past lives, I wonder how many
empires have failed him.
My rights, my wrongs, I write
till I’m right with God
and my father hides
in every line of my poems;
and how much we have had to forgive;
and how many photographs have gone
untaken, left in closets in houses
oceans away; it’s all too much to bear
so maybe I should pray, but I grow
weary of asking for this fear
to be taken from me, so I let Kendrick sing
Do you hear me? Do you feel me?
We gon’ be alright
and in the years to come
maybe I will come to believe it
for now all that can be done
is to press replay
“You make it look like it’s magic
Cuz I see nobody (nobody) but you.
I’m never confused; I’m so used
to being used.”
— The Weeknd
You were almost the One
who got away.
I drove by the site
of our biggest fight, today
six times, in coming and going
to an event I was DJing.
Last night, I shared with you
how I had fallen in love with you
all over again. How who you are
and who you’d been for days (and months)
was the single woman I had ever fully trusted
to take my heart and to guard it
in your hands.
The single woman I believed
truly loved me. Wanted me. Believed in me.
And chose me.
I stared at the alleyway in which I’d hid
that day, so others wouldn’t hear me yelling
or crying, or see me chainsmoking on a smokeless
campus. I looked at the tree where I’d leaned
to support the weight of knowing
it was all about to end.
Everything I’d believed.
The You I had believed
to exist crumbling inside my mind
like the shatter-less vase you realized
you’d paid too much for when it slips
from the counter and does, indeed, sha
tter
into plastic pieces.
That belief:
Love at first sight.
I can still see you on the loveseat
that first day. When our eyes met
and everything, everything
in my life finally made sense.
Like a bell ringing somewhere unseen.
Like the guts of a lock with its tumblers
clicking into place. I knew,
right then and there,
for better or worse,
the rest of my life
was in your dark,
elegant hands.
Driving home that night,
I prayed. I confessed. I told our God
(the one I hadn’t talked to in years)
that if it wasn’t you, if you hadn’t felt it too—
I would never believe again.
It was too much. It was too much
and at first sight.
Today, I looked at that alley
and that tree, six times, and I stared
into the eyes of a reality that almost
was given breath. That almost
rose up and ripped out and tore us
apart, believing it had all been
a worthless fantasy.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
“So quick bright things come
to confusion.”
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;
it’s loveliness increases; it will never
pass into nothingness”
“Nothing gold can stay.”
The voices of the great romantic writers
are the voices we, ourselves, speak
in clichés, like when we say:
If you love something
let it go.
We almost let it
all
go.
There, in that alley way,
by that tree, everything
I believed (I believe)
was almost erased.
My prayer, as we say goodnight
tonight, is that we would never
forget. That we would never
not see, not believe, never
let go of what we know
to be fact.
And that, just as every cliché
became a cliché, because
one person experienced it
and said it, and others
recognized themselves
in it, and still others
repeated it, whether
or not they believed it,
until the words were
tarnished and lost
all meaning…
Our testimony would remain
when everything else has gone
and the words no longer matter.
Our love would remain
when everything else has failed
and words are no longer
necessary:
Our hands would hold.
Our eyes would see
just as we saw
at very
first sight.
* Text in quotes are, in order, from William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 & A Midsummer Nights’ Dream, John Keats’ Endymion, and Robert Frost’ Nothing Gold Can Stay. The other italicized phrases are cliches. And true.*
