Published in Fractal Magazine: http://www.fractalmagazine.com/november/
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
I once gave you a sock
to cover your can of beer
one hot summer day
on a public field.
I sometimes wonder
where it’s been
since that Tuesday.
Perhaps it went on an early morning jog,
and saw all your neighborhood
looking up from gravel streets.
Maybe it sat at the bottom
of your bag of ***** clothes
when you went to the Laundromat
and offered a spare dryer sheet
to a lady who smelled like
red delicious apples and cheddar cheese,
or maybe it found its way
to the top of Mt. Washington
in the corner of your trunk
behind a bag of turkey sandwiches.
There’s a chance it could have been found
by your daughter’s friend
at her eighth birthday party
and become a thwarted puppet-foe
to her warrior princess doll,
or found by your Labrador
and buried in his favorite spot
under that crooked tree in the yard,
only to be picked up by a hawk
and placed in the bed of her nest.
It’s possible you could have
packed it in your suitcase
on your first trip to Spain,
and walked with it on Las Ramblas
when you bought pitaya at the market.
Perhaps it never left
the bottom of your gym bag
and remained folded
inside your right cleat,
but I like to think
it accidentally fell
on the edge of the Grand Canyon
during your spring break trip
to be captured in a family photo
later printed and framed
in someone’s house in some exotic place
where it could be, in memory, forever.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
I'm kneeling.
My fingers wound
Like barbed wire,
Knees bear the weight
Of my guilt;
What I didn't expect
To show you
Were thoughts in my mind
About ***
I imagine his fingers
Softly gliding along the curve
Of my hip
And as I gave thanks,
What fruit I would taste
On his lip
And as I said, "Amen, Amen,"
His fingers stroking
And I bending,
Pulling
Grapes off a vine.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
I want a love that speaks its mind,
Seeks the sweetest nectar and dances to the hive.
I want a love that listens close,
Catching fireflies to watch each one glow.
I want a love that stands its ground,
As a stone holding fast to a riverbed is found.
I want a love that doesn’t hide,
As a dove loves one for life, true when tried.
I want a love that delights in play,
That sings and brings laughter to soothe others’ pain.
I want a love that is true to you,
A love sturdy enough to ensnare and release two.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
The white moon outshines whispering stars,
Illuminating my face and feet.
I step softly on the splintered porch,
Standing before the dark mountain shade.
My hand rests below my collarbone,
Fingers press into my steady pulse.
I belong in the sweet, frosty air
Where I can view blue and green mountains.
My eyes well, winking dark mirror ponds.
Each night mountains kiss the blanket edge,
Protecting nature’s wild secrets
Behind celestial tree-locked walls.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
A picture of us
sits next to your bathroom sink.
I saw it as I rummaged
through cabinets
looking for toothpaste:
I was sunburned, wearing braces,
and you held a wooden spoon
with the same smile,
crooked nose,
and bushy eyebrows
in the kitchen.
You would come home early,
I would chop
onion and garlic,
garlic and onion,
to Metallica blaring
on your stereo.
We can stir the ***
until our hands blister,
but something added
cannot be removed.
There was the summer
we built model rockets,
the summer you took me to meet
our family in Greece,
and all those summers
we ate Krispy Kreme and fished.
I didn’t become an astronaut,
I didn’t learn Greek,
I threw up over the side of the boat,
but because you came home early
so many days in a row – just for me –
that was my favorite summer.
Today, over the
chop-chop-sizzle
in a broken-in kitchen
we fill a stained cookbook
with dog-ears,
small adjustments.
The same ingredients
never taste the same way twice.
We reclaim a day
out of years lost.
Then that photo
by your sink.
It was a small
Father’s Day gift,
survivor of four moves
and twelve years
of self-discovery,
still reminding you – and me –
of summers spent
breaking in kitchens
and recipes
we’ve been making for years.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
I would love to know
what tickles the corners of your eyes.
Do you see Pablo’s circus
in rosy shades? Or does the world weep
and turn your guitar strings blue?
Does it re-form before you
in images you will to be made?
Or do you welcome the unexpected
blend of something new?
What do you dream of when your lids close?
Do you imagine a great wave that carries
all the desks and chairs to a far-off place?
When you roll in your sheets
and fears keep you from sleep,
do you see blue and green mountains
or fields of rolling golden wheat?
Perhaps a rocky shoreline brushed in foam
or a soft patch of grass beneath your feet.
I would kiss the shadows into sighs,
And share in your wrinkled delight.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
1.
churning ocean
low tide, warm
tug on my calves
i resist the pull
down, toward shore
push on to the break
watching, waiting
a foaming force to
embrace my stomach
i turn to swim
smiling, riding
a salt rush to shore
slow, lovely glide
in the sparkling
warm sea
2.
we walk south
and enter --
the water is warm
then cold
my skin shrinks
i remember
when i was seven
we did this then
i rode the waves
a tiny body
caught up in the
storming sea
stood up
saw my father
his smile, and mine
ready to do it again
that is the hope
i wish for my daughter
the will
to do it again
be a lighthouse
on her rocky shore:
shake out the sand
and face the sea
let go,
let it flow back
a warm salt rush
the pull, the push
the most beautiful
excitement
and powerful force
to be hers again
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
My boat rests in the middle of the lake,
Rocking me to sleep in the quiet day.
Soft rolling waves soothe the dull ache,
Dissolving all the pain of yesterday.
I gaze at the shapes the white clouds make,
Before the silent wind sweeps them away,
Wondering what it would take
To lift me up and carry me away.
My hand dips into the water below,
Painting a new reflection of the sky.
A symphony of crickets bids me to go
From the warm quilted place I lie.
I wait a moment to hear it grow
And feel the tip of the bow give with a sigh
As I cradle it between each toe
Just before the dive.
I twirl and glide through silk to shore
Leaving my dear boat behind.
Ahead I know there is something more
Than ever I imagined in my green mind.
My feet touch the grassy floor
To feel the contours they can find
Then jump to reach toward my floating oar
Kicking and pushing to the other side.
My lungs again are filled with air
And I fasten my oar with string to my hand.
It skims the surface beside my drifting hair
As I push with frog legs back to land.
I lean the oar against the crooked stair,
My boat still cradled in the lake’s hand.
There was no other way but to leave it there,
Holding the yesteryear.
With one farewell glance, I turn to see
The faithful cabin that stands ahead.
It has been waiting all this time just for me,
Keeping a place to rest my head.
A place of refuge between the trees,
It promises, too, that I will be led
To grand things that are yet to be
A wondrous future to dream from my bed.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Sentry to the Pink Lady’s Slipper, protector
of the delicate orchid. Her plum breath speaks
in smoke curls that travel upward, a green screen that
paints a wet woodland scene. Once you slipped
her on for size on a moonless night.
Can you still feel the *****
of her bite? Cup the cool water
with both hands and watch as it trickles between your
knuckles. Use them for falling trees and
blowing bubbles into mountains. Make brightly burning fires
that lick
the undertow tangling your feet, drawing whiskey
from your lungs. Her pink slipper waits. Go
cover your body with dust.
Let her gather your crumbling yellow into her moccasin
and carry you above the leaf-covered ground to
a secret strawberry garden. Smell her red
and taste her white freckled with seeds in your mouth.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC