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I received a plain envelope in the mail today 
It contained a letter and a plane ticket
It said be a dear and meet me at the airport in an hour
I will be the male wearing the tie-dye shirt   

Dare I go 
I’m no fool
But full of curiosity

Will I be prey
Like a deer in headlights
Ending up as meat on somebody’s plate

I knew it was a bad idea

But here I sit in my new dress  
One eye closed
The other keeping watch
As I pray

Please don’t let me die 

the late afternoon sun hides
inviting me to as well
reclusiveness sounds delightful
so like the flowers who close nightly
I settle in for a few hour sabbath
celebrating internally, the labors of the day
I allow myself to grow
not by expansion
but by rest

took multiple trains 
in the pouring rain 

waited at the bar 
for forty five minutes 

never got interviewed 

walked out 

into the sunshine 
in soaked socks 

When the Crazy Frog
comes on no one can help but
dance dance dance dance dance

Spinning freely,
                              excitedly,
                                                 expressively,
                                                                          with childlike abandon
Moving quickly,
                              lightly,
                                           supplely,
                                                            like a deer with graceful fluidity
Footwork rhymically,
                                        easily,
                                                    smoothly,
                                                                       as agile as nimble fingers knitting
Communicating bodily,
                                           creatively,
                                                               wordlessly,
                                                                                    telling visual, visceral stories
Executing deftly,
                             masterly,
                                               intelligently,
                                                                       physical steps of spiritual expression

I see myself in the nun walking by
as I read on a bench in the sunshine.
She of the short grey hair,
a man’s shirt, cleanly laundered,
wash and wear, drapes over her
navy cotton slacks.  She proceeds
with purpose, one hand wrapped
behind her back.  She looks down
as she walks, serious, contemplative.

I’ve always said I could pick a nun
our of a lineup.
Sturdy, no-nonsense–
plain, unadorned faces.
They would be nurses.  You could
trust them with your life.
You can be sure they have books
checked out of the library
and that they’ll return them.

You Smirked
like a no more tricycle training wheels, big girl
and assured me of my ignorance
because
‘I didn’t know how to get what I want’ 
because I hadn’t mastered the woe is me,
Naive Mama, 
distressed damsel,
play pretend bargaining talk 
required of a Cruella in search of her breeder. 
My mind wanders,
now,
more than before-
or maybe,
I am finally admitting that it wanders
more than before
the unraveling
of my spontaneity invited
apathy to stay awhile,
to spread itself over my heart,
to tuck itself in
around my skin
my knuckles
– a kaleidoscope reaction to too many
moral calamities

How I long for the days when cold cola still felt like a healthy swallow. 
 

Every spring my heart pulls on rubber boots
pulls me along with her—

we tromp and splash where shadows
play across newborn grass

my heart’s silly pink on spring days,
love-bitten, chlorophyll-drunk

periwinkle shadows dapple dandelions,
shimmy with tadpoles in snaky

oblong lakes that sidle up sudden
in ditches after vernal showers

my heart pulls me in, I’m all yellow slickers
she’s tattoo of raindrops on the swale—

we play until all the little lakes vanish
into hot wet air—til I’m sticky haired

and she’s sunk in those rubber boots
feet damp and rank so we escape

north on I-75, chase heat-mirages
that flash ahead of us, teasing

phantom lakes, always just ahead—
summertime sadness on the radio, echoes of long-ago

mountain lake summers gone, summers we can’t drive
back to, no more shiver on the midnight dock summers

we’ll never abandon all reason
for cool deep blues and cannonballs

we’ll never ever float coconut-butter afternoons, never.  
Yet my heart skinny dips every solstice—

stubborn, she never ever minds my nevers.
She just laughs and pulls me in, naked.

Out of a grey-washed whirlwind 
Imagination stands
against a blue star-clad sky ‐
Four spirits reach

A bearded god with outstretched arms,
cruciform,
perches on a veil of clouds

Are you Apollo to his right,
guiding a chariot pulled by four
prancing steeds,
light shooting from your head?

And Artemis, the twin, on his left?
Her coiled dragons in darkness wait
Her moonlit crescent crown shines the way

Beneath them all
The pleading eyes of Job who asked, “Why?”

(The poetry of William Blake has always intrigued me, but I just
discovered his art. The blending of myth and bibical story
in his art should not have surprised me, but it did.)