you cast an eldritch shadow
in your father’s light
so he brings you to an island where
you live in a mansion of stone

in your father’s light
 you were never bright enough to matter so
you live in a mansion of stone
to hide your Heart from men

you were never bright enough to matter so
your Love was scorned
to hide your Heart from men
you turned them to swine

your Love was scorned
until Odysseus sent his men to your home
you turned them to swine
but you changed them back for him

until Odysseus sent his men to your home
you had never known kindness from a man
but you changed them back for him
he stayed with you for a year

you had never known kindness from a man
you had never known Love returned
he stayed with you for a year
on that last night you watched his ship recede from shore

you had never known Love returned
after Odysseus you never would again
on that last night you watched his ship recede from shore, where
you cast an eldritch shadow  

Bitter-to-the-bone
cold grasped my toes
and held on.
Hot soaks, two pairs
of socks, and a space heater
won a few battles,
not the war.
In time
the cold owned my toes
and held them
prisoner,
casualties of prolonged
sub-zero temps.
It became a winter
of incarceration,
the only hope
a spring parole.

Act I

The presumption of glaciers
                                            diminish our own existence
Growing and moving under
                                            the influence of gravity
Fateful contrarian women
                                            sensitive to the climate

Act II

River, well-known fickle bitch
                                            giving, taking life without word
Placate her with space to stretch
                                            her fierce arms and bountiful thighs
Raging womb open for brio
                                            sometimes defying her will

Act III

You interpret the shadow
                                            on Grandmother Turtle’s broad back
First woman, mother of all
                                            living and dead of Babylon
Translating from earth to heaven
                                            on the wings of a vain crane

The proposed book title is so hilarious
I ask if I can use it in a poem
We had just finished sharing all we had —
bread and cheese, ideas, flower seeds,
munched on arugula from her garden  

No, she says
Too many things have been taken from me
Innocence, love, comfort, trust
Nonetheless her garden blooms wildly
I wonder where she finds it, her tender determination

innocent remnants
from last night’s freight train tempest
gentle sky convoy

The day my bride arrives

Like Cassius Clay

Much potential and without religion

What do you have that you did not receive?

(after the 1943 painting “Refugee Thanksgiving,” by Norman Rockwell)

She has not been killed,
or otherwise bodily injured,
in the fleeing from her home,
finding shelter and freedom
elsewhere, behind the other line.

She is tired, hungry,
cold and frightened,
and her young soul
knows just enough
to say, “These will hurt
as long as you remember.”

Still, seated in a broken church,
she is old enough to keep faith
for better days, for years full
with love, and grace, and joy.
And so she folds her hands,
says an honest prayer of thanks
for the simple meal she received,
the over large, used, warm coat,
both from a stranger, without asking. 

I’m here again,
sitting in the living room,
lamplight yellow,
scratching places
unmentionable.
I would tell you to kiss my ass
if the game were less real.
I would tell you to eat worms
if the garden wears turned and planted.
I would tell you I love you
if you looked at me again. 
But you don’t look at me
and I fold in half,
paper doll holding hands with myself.

    I    hAVE     aLsO 
sEeN     cONTAINED
rUNES    IN      THe
         PAtTERNs