Poems

He thinks of my son
as his own even though
my boy is 36 & mysteriously

estranged from the family, we don’t
even know why. Could it be
his blood dad never

really put him first
or that I swam
ahead of him treating

him like a fragile
duckling. He was my rare
bird, my wunderkind. Did I

squelch the piece
of him that needed to breathe, fly
or just plain relax? I imagine

him — my flawless son, my runaway,
my prodigal. I release
a handwritten message by way

of carrier pigeon. Until you return,
it reads. I am holding
a father for you.

Is the dance quite them,
spinning a different body
around a kitchen?
Did you successfully find
a still beating heart, without
to much saddness?
I know who she was
but she is all I know,
in every garden, I love you

I saw an isolate, angry cloud 
swirling , and receiving patterns 

in the water below shouted
cry havoc and release the kraken,

a something Lovecraft when the warmth
above met the North Atlantic brack water—

black in the night.  True to form,
I sailed with a moon most grateful;

there were ice edges about me,
with hopes of a guitar to accompany me.

My fingers, though.  I heated them
over kerosene, and they remained

solid and fixed like a Polaris or a Sirius
with Orion declaring his witness.

I wouldn’t be out here looking for her,
weighing us down, weren’t I a sentimental

fuck.  It doesn’t get any better sweet one;
I see tide, the call of a blue eye twinkling,

the sunshine of blonde hair on the water,
the lie as deep as it goes with towers

10 years of octopi high.

One is filled with cozy night indoors,
Sipping hot drinks by a warm flickering fire,
The other is has night of relief,
Bathing in the cool air of the A/C,
Blessed by the blades of a fan,
One has snowball fights and beautiful icicles,
The other has beaches and painful burns,
One is calm and takes a slow pace,
The other is fast and full of noise,
Winter is free from disturbances,
Summer has bothersome insects,
So yes,
Winter > Summer

Sometimes
the best thing to do
isn’t

in line with
the best thing
to do; 

there is
always a choice, and
it is

the only
thing you can do.
Sometimes. 

My husband told me

had the same man over tonight
half flacid half aroused was he
the type of package you know
was to be envied in its heyday

last time he told me “call me daddy”
the same week my own father died
this time we didn’t even come at all
this time an uber came early, early

i put the knife back under the bed
turn off someone else’s bad sex playlist  
i bounce around my own house screaming 
i reach for the ceiling in his absence

Tulips in the spring
lean toward the sun
try to reach you

Towhead challenging
fun, never behaved 
grew to rugged blond
Hollywood stature looks
then disappeared

Your Mother died thinking
someone had tossed
your body
into the Bay 
from the Bridge

Seemingly, you cared
not a bit
Your Mother
dying of cancer
mourned you

Troubled man
bright, talented,
disarmingly charming
clever, cunning
unable to remain 

with the rays of heat
light, sound
converging 
diverging 
disappearing

It is springtime once again
Lilac buds blossom 
still in your prime
you silently decide
determinedly accelerate 

Down, down, down 
rushing forward
numbly
into the great noble
receptive tree

standing in a dimly lit kitchen
with clean counters gleaming
the window plants bowed heavy 
with fully hydrated dark green leaves
a street light a distance down the road
creates a pale cirlce of pavement

and there I can hear the echoes of each
moment at this point year after year
extending backwards through time
all those years of pain, 
loathing and dread and fear
wrapped in overheated computer processors 
empty cans
crying children
family and those that I loved
screaming into the night 
at god
or at me

but this silence
standing in my underwear
alone
my god
thankfully
it’s all behind me

I find my first baby, Kitty, on eBay.
Upon searching I discover
her true name,
Pussy Cat,
made by Madame Alexander, 1965

I was disturbed to hear 
Mom say she probably threw her out,
having suffered a bad haircut,
torn stuffing, chewed toes

I mourn her loss

Seeing her would make me so happy.
Like the day cleaning my parents attic,
my kissing doll appears among old clothing,
naked, with stained face and sticking up hair.

Holding her, oh the wholeness!
Squeezing her belly to get the kiss face
pure joy!

There is Pussy Cat waiting online,
plastic baby legs having greened.
I decide against it,
too much a reminder of sad things.