Pain, joy, sadness,   
the small alphabet of departure,     
a deep well of tears,     
your heart like a folded banket,    
the name of a loved one hiding everywhere,  
the funnels of want    
inside the long heat, what pleasure—    
a soft, petaled cheek   
skin remembers—    
the tender gravity of kindness.      

The lit window of childhood     
the house of muttering,
how the words ignite   
the words under the words,     
how the rooms heaved into silence,   
rivery ripples carrying you back,   
the soft hue of memory, moss green,   
the train whistle’s ancient sound,    
all my questions    
What if? What if?    
the ideas you carry close to your bosom,
folding into yourself   
a secret pouch of listening,   
hum of a dream deep inside you,    
a soft place in the middle of the evening,   
books to open and open and open,    
the polished edge of
a rose curling up its petals,    
a prayer spoke secretly.    

You know what to do.    
Carry the endless surprise of      
sky and birds in your heart,   
a sense of shifting    
always rooted to  
endless minutes of green.    
Wake up filled with possibilities,  
the borders you must cross    
where memories rest in heaps.   
The days are nouns: touch them,    
stitch them together, slowly, slowly.    
Worship the world of trees,    
the clear breath of mountains,    
crows roosting in trees—
black bags of darkness.    
Bathe in the cool voice    
of the moon speaking its own round name.      

It’s hard to be a person   
clenching and opening,   
carrying tender spots.  
Be deep water
opening up and up, amazed.    
Name what doesn’t change.    
Tell the truth.
We have all been saved so many times.    
It’s late but everything comes next.
The whole sky says Your move.            

Running through the sprinklers
daughters in tow, pigtails flying, barefoot on green
lush grass, no fear of stepping on yellow jackets.

At Heather’s birthday party, he shook the can and spritzed
white froth inside their open baby bird mouths giggling
as the froth spilled onto smiling faces.

Putting quarter after quarter into the slots
of mechanical painted horses in front of Kmart till
Holly stopped asking, “More Daddy!”

Feeding white bread crusts to the ducks with his girls
by his side on his only day off giving me a mommy
break as he chauffeured them to Jacobsen Park.

Holding hands Halloween night, marching them house
to house as they filled their pillowcases with Reeses,
Red Twizzlers, Milk Duds, wearing princess costumes,
Jessica Rabbit, or as a human Pom-Pom. Patiently he waited,
as they rang the doorbells shouting, “Trick or Treat”.

Beaming with pride, tapping his foot during band competitions 
to the drum rolls, grinning holding flags for both high schools,
and spent Christmas Day watching band videos, his favorite gift of all.

Just wish he was here now
to spread his Boompa joy
with Joey, Nicholas, and Jaxson
his three grandsons.

Run, if you can
Hide, if you can’t
If neither, fight
But not to save you:
To save the next kid, the next hall
To give them a couple more seconds
To get there, to stop it.
I am a child, a teenager
But I am also a bulletproof vest
A diversion
A fighting chance for the others
Hope in the form of a distraction.
I am blood and flesh
But I need to be metal and fabric
Minimal casualties
Minimal children dead
Especially sports players
Or pretty girls
Or handsome boys
Minimal teachers and administrators
But, not none.
The Constitution doesn’t allow for none.
Or at least, that’s what they say.
That document is living
But will I be?

Magnolia blossoms  

The linings of my veins
ached in the middle of a warfare of noises.
What was going to happen
rained down on my head.
I hadn’t wanted to find the man
hanging what he was dreaming
so that the air pulsed with color.
I was going home
from some basic misunderstanding.
Like a foreigner breathing,
seeds were moaning in the gardens.  

I was so flooded with yearning
a spasm ran through me.
Light streaks striped Tom’s face.
I was out of luck, a china cup
in millions of bits, but happy
like a machine that polishes stones.
The sky didn’t have any air in it.
The earth was made of shadows
smelling one another’s butts.  

And the Savior did come, but
right now he is, I think, in the state
prison in Colorado. Like the dead
coming back, a mist covered everything.
I felt the beauty, a deep thirst being quenched.
That world! These days it’s all brainless
angels bruised the colors of a tattoo.
Sunset danced on my despair.
The torn moon mended.  

I was in love, enough to drink
for two hours. I staggered, clinging
to a book. Most days are crushed
breathless by something far away,
too beautiful, true in a fiery
and glorious way. I was born in
a story or a poem, word for word,
alive in a deeper sense,
coming back over and over.
Look in the mirror. Hah!
Wrecked cars. My bullet hole.  

Nothing could stifle the blurry music
of rush hour absorbing the sounds of my steps
full of smoke and silences I didn’t want to hear.
My guts jumping with unintelligible words,
I heard lovely cries, music, messages.
I heard the world smolder
around its edges for a heartbeat.  

There might be a place for people like us.

Mammoth hands rest casually on the wheel, steering our half-blind course
Droopy, lidded eyes in denial, growled “I’m good”s punctuate his silence
Biting my “Are we there yet?” tongue nigh on five hours, swirling worries abide
Rehearsal for the next four years… or five or ten of our co-signed life.
When can I quit this trip and finally rest and cheer from the sidelines?

Round snappy slices of dill pickles bob
in a bucket between us.  My daughter,
barely two, knows of them from
her picture book “Let’s Eat.”  Can I?

I nod, offer a bit of warning.  She pops
one in her mouth, in a flash the briney,
salty, dilly flavors light up her senses,
her big brown eyes widen to twice
their size.  Their bite sprints the network,
signals firing, to word and glossy picture.   

Oh Hoh!    
            THIS IS A PICKLE?!      

 For Isaac

              “Division is recommended” 
                                    –       Almanac.com  

Stature isn’t everything
but if one of us leans
a head on a shoulder

you’ve overtaken me.
I still remember you
twenty-one inches,

in my arms, amid the night
cholic & crying
til I carried you

outside, under the stars—
the way you peered
silently into the sky.

For seven weeks
I’ve been lost
& you’ve been wise

words & strong shoulders,
holding my forty-three
years & change.

Gone for the summer, but
you’ll return
& one day soon you’ll go,

for the good
of a separate life.
Please

know your goat’s beard
dad will always be
proud

of today
of tomorrow
& here for you.

His name? Watch your back:
Garden Asshole Anarchist
Wrecking Ball Chipmunk.

You are all prodi-
gal daughter. You leave and re-
turn, repeatedly.