Little one, yes, you,
skittering ever so lightly
across my bare foot,
out of the darkness
and over the threshold:
your life / my life,
your wild / my kitchen.  

I think, cat! oh rat! but no,
little baby possum, it’s you,
innocent among innocents,
blinded by light, quick-glancing
over your slight shoulder,
red-rimmed eyes in a mask
of white, pink-lipped snout,
open, panting, oh, oh, oh!

Finally, my husband and I
(and yes, I called for backup)
find you tight in a corner,
eyes ever-fixed on mine. I fancy
I might whisper you into calmness,
softly clicking, it’s okay, little one,
it’s okay, but you are not a believer and
it’s way past my bedtime,
so like it or not, and none of us do,
out comes the broom.

We barricade all escape routes but one,
and with a well-timed push to the right,      
to the left, now behind: Shoo, possum, shoo!
you do, into the unlit night.

i wish to write more poems about
the length of their eyelashes
as they get closer and
    closer
to mine, when our lips brush gently together

how soft curly strands of hair feel
wrapped between my fingers when
that kiss deepens and i pull her in tighter-
harder 

but, i still feel i am not allowed to write poems about that,
like i am not allowed to be kissing girls 

i was never supposed to be close enough
to her lips
to know each fleck of color nestled in her iris

like i was not allowed to know the scent of her this intimately
to write about it as if it were a sonnet:
shakespearean; dark and unattainable 

i was not meant to think of girls so long-fully,
dreaming of more fruitful words i might love them with

more poems i wish to write

zodiac elder,
neptune’s daughter
guided by forces even she doesn’t know

affection junkie trailing sea foam kisses
from salt-cracked lips

caught in the cosmic in-between

we had a pact between us
a joyous pledge of accession
swaggering falling down crown
first thru our own palace gate

we used to discuss miracles
sing along with patsy and hank
shop together for butter and eggs
to bake your red angel food cake

each day now I lift our sceptres
climb into the nave behind our two
thrones to consider then reconsider
my familiar sad trip to your grave

“I am not an old man having an existential crisis at a Buddhist monastery writing horny poetry” – boygenius (Leonard Cohen)

Today, he wore black slacks and a black belt
Unknowing it would push me to the brink
where his crisp shirt meets his waist I could melt
his grin so coy I couldn’t start to think

On Friday he drives home to his great wife
who he cares for like I would want to be.
I’m cursed to care for me all of my life
or change who I am fundamentally.

on Saturday I’ll lay in bed all day
and dream about the boy inside my head.
my friends will tell me that’s just not the way
to feel something before I’m good and dead

They say I’ll find an alternative soon
I’m blushing cause some boy could make me swoon

the grocer doesn’t talk to
the mailman doesn’t talk to
the teacher doesn’t talk to

the average Joe on the street
they’re all living entire lives
trying to get out of their heads

long enough to get a cup of coffee
they don’t organize protest
rise up in anger they meet

silently exchange goods and
walk off their separate ways
engrossed in what they’re doing

clouds are waves in the book of light
waves are clouds in the book of night
light is night in the clouds of waves
night is light in the waves of clouds

you are clouds in the book of light
i am waves in the book of night
night is light in the book of you
light is night in the book of me

tell me what you see in the book of light
i’ll tell you what i see in the book of night

When we lived in the East
everyday I fought the mountains.
Pulled new stalks off old weeds whose
roots were older than me and the house.
Devised new fencing, containment systems to
keep three generations of deer out of my prideful tomatoes.
Cried to discover they only took one bite of each.
The waste, the waste.

I surrendered when,
after a new netting attempt,
the self-dismembered bodies of two sparrows.
All franticness and tempest. 
Caught in the crossfire of my war of attrition with the deer.
The waste, the waste.

perched on the very last pew
left of the aisle
I genuflect to nothingness
no bread, no wine  

left of the aisle for this girl
no bread, no wine
The State of Grace is a foreign nation  
for this girl

the kind priest asks, “Why?”
I say, “The State of Grace is a foreign nation.
for this girl”
Yet she lives up to her vestments  

the kind priest asks, “Why?”
I say, “I cannot love all my neighbors.”
Yet she lives up to her vestments
“I have no love for those in red hats”  

I say, “I cannot love all my neighbors
those mourning Charlie Kirk
those in red hats
wavers of that pseudo-Confederate flag  

“those mourning Charlie Kirk
those ICEbergs and their subzero mission
wavers of that pseudo-Confederate flag
how can I confess all that I have left undone?  

“those ICEbergs and their subzero mission
I dare not kneel at the altar rail
how can I confess all that I have left undone?
my sins of omission?  

“I dare not kneel at the altar rail
my arthritic knees will not let me rise
from my sins of omission –
I cannot rise up  

“my arthritic knees will not let me rise
I genuflect to nothingness
I cannot rise up
perched on the very last pew.”