whole reed-baskets full
uncountable peppers

wagon red, Kelly green, lemon yellow
mandarin orange, seed-pregnant

vested in limy leaves impossible
to snap off each crevasse-skinned

bulbous-shaped fruit for a taste dare:
keep a water cracker rescue near

for tame ones, raw onion to save
your tongue for the wildest burns

each first cracked-half bursts
in the shower of the kitchen sink

sudden coughs huh, huh, surprise
your throat fire-lined, vision blurred,

seeds spew like confetti, spiral
down the drain, lost garden magic

never forget they say, yet
happens often whether we want it to or not
just yesterday
you forgot to pick that, well, you know
and the whosiwhatsit on the car
nope, still three weeks and no mechanic visit
like you promised yourself, oh well
take a breath, don’t worry
there’s always tomorrow
whichever day it might turn out to be

maybe you want me to water your garden
and help you weed your plants
and maybe set some deterrents aside
to deal with the aphids and ants
and maybe you’d wonder how far you’d grow
if given enough
room
and light
and the chance
and perhaps this poem is me
wondering and wishing
that i’d planted this seed
in advance

Each day I grapple 
with the Force anew, and if
I find small succor 
in the Light, at least I do
not fall, face first, into Dark. 

And here I am again,
My hopes up high
Waiting for you to call,
To ask me to come over
To stay up all night
Catch up and laugh maybe,
And yet again, it’s silence

“In this house, it’s rubber bands,” he says,
standing at the kitchen drawer, “and rocks,” he adds.    

We could make slingshots, launch those pebbles
into space, make rain for rabbits in the yard.  Load rocks
into bike baskets to ward off vicious hounds.  Band
two rocks together, perhaps they’d reproduce, sandstone
rubbing igneous, voila! They’d morph, of course. 
Into circles of bands we could throw rocks—bullseyes! 
In our pockets, stones, in case we need to track
our journey with the witch and rubber bands to wad,
caress while she cackles.  Both can go in jars,
collectors’ items, the bands of uncertain provenance,
though some antiques survive in my mother’s button box. 
Decorate your large pet rock with bands, first paint them
many colors, the nine-banded Brazilian rock a focal point
among the hosta.  Rocky ballast for spindly schefleras,
rubber grist for the house wren set yet again on nesting
in my poor potted begonia.  Rocks to hold in place
the meditation pool, bands wriggling atop them,
artificial garter snakes.   

Rocks deconstruct, return to earth, the rubber bands
I think will last as long as roaches. At least they’re quiet
at night, no rustling wings disturb our dreams.

Middle age, a tree with brilliant leaves,
waits for storm to steal them away. 

Old age is a coal mine full of value
for those who dare its darkness.

Death of an elder leaves a picture,
someone the young will never meet.

Find the pieces of love
that give you strength.

Ferret out nuggets of joy
that power your actions.

Power up on fragments of sunlight
as they enter your soul on song.

The fight ahead
is thick and long

on sprouting, devil barbed
sparks of evil.

You are watching the storm roll in, close in on us,
and I am watching it come, too, in the reflection 
in your hazel eyes. The ending scene to a movie,
I lean into your shoulder as my cherry-red hair
whirlpools around us. To the ever darkening sky
we tilt our faces like wide white moonflowers
opening up so slightly at the brink of dusk.
Fireflies seep from the ground around us,
and the blue jays who once blitzed the air
are so hauntingly absent. Everything moves
in the tide of wind, everything is touched here.
As leaves turn and spiral around our silhouettes,
we are caving in like old lovers, we will not make it.
I do not yet cry. I am waiting for the moment. 
I will stand in the rain then, so you will not see it.

My husband’s been after me
for years (he doesn’t ask for much)
to get rid of the New Yorker. Weekly
it arrives, and I study the cover, run
my fingers over the cool glossy paper, flip
open to the Table of Contents, slide
down to the red-letter heading: Poems. Whose
names are listed, which two are the chosen
ones for this issue. I’m less surprised
than I used to be, having grown
accustomed to the A-gamers. There are such
poets. Someday, I may be one—if I could
fully divest from such mundane chores
like eating and sleeping and sex. For
now, I’ll spit out the occasional good
piece. I’m not saying this will ever be
considered. I keep putting it off—
the decision. About the magazine
subscription.  Of course.