Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Every drop of blood slaves shed
beneath the lash and rod
was repaid in kind at Sharpsburg
by the terrible swift sword.
Twenty three thousand Sacrificed
in joint sanquinity
to debate the principle
that all men should live free.
At Burnside's bridge,
on the sunken road,
The Landscape dripping red.
The wounded called for water
as they lay among the dead.
At the Whitewashed Dunker church
the Dutchmen stood agog
as the fearful toll was paid
by brave souls on either side.

This is happening more and more.
It’s ungodly early and we’re tripping on bricks
a pack of feckless teenagers still.
That never changed.
The tall one, skinny with rosy cheeks
and the eyes of a fighter
is holding loosely onto my hand
his nose won’t stop bleeding.

We follow the broad intimidating one
in a red sox hat,
he’s punching every stop sign we pass
and just hollering
how we’ll always stick together
you don’t mess with family
(I’ve known them all for three weeks)
his accent is getting thicker through his swollen lip.

In the rear the shorter one, but still much taller than me,
his hair stuck up in all directions
is still getting his breath back from that sock to the stomach.

We all love that frozen moment, when first punch turns to full on brawl.
Peter says even if you get hit, at least you’re feeling something.
We all taste like bourbon, cause this is the South now.

I’m draggin’ them home in my favorite blue skirt,
two heads shorter at least.
Saying, soon we’ll be home boys, I’ll fix you up then.
Because they’ll fight for me, I fight for them.
Saying stop punching public property, Paul and
Stevie, I’ve got you, don’t cry
The Pats are on tomorrow boys, and we’ve all got work to do.
just a little longer

I find family where I can these days.

The soap in my downstairs bathroom reminds me
Of the ooze that leaked from a pregnant snail
After I mutilated her shell to use the meat as bait.
Forcing a hook through her body and casting it into a lake,
I waited for a fish to swallow the tiny knife
And hoped it would get lodged in his esophagus.
I pulled his lungs from the water
And laughed as he writhed at the end of my string.

I don’t fish anymore.

-After Diana-                                              
The paparrazi are nobody's friend            
It all seems such a pity
He shouldn't have trained his big long lens
On her poor little Bristol Cities

-After Maggie-
When the daisies push up with Maggie beneath
To mark her grave will be taking a chance
For some may come to lay a wreath
But others will come to dance

-After the war-
The Argentine girl was all smiles
All went well between us
I didn't mention the Falkland Isles
And she didn't say Las Malvinas

I take a breath of the cool morning air.
The sky is gray with after-dawn.
My lips taste of dew and salt,
Bare toes on a damp dock tap now in count.
One. Two. Three. Leap.
I plunge into an endless bubble whirl,
As simultaneously delicate and strong
As the vermilion tendrils that wave at me from the sea floor.
My feet kick, brushing one.
Shy fish bat at my toes and then retreat into the kelp
As I open my eyes
Blinking out into the brine.
It stings, creating a fog that I have to shake
With focus on my oscillating feet.
When my vision clears, it is like waking into a dream.
A world of possibilities is born as I take in all the life.
Living things are displayed before me
In a beautiful vital rainbow
Of silvers and blues,
Grays and greens,
And I am instantaneously in love with it.
Only stopping to rub my eyes once,
I dolphin kick my way to the floor below.
The sand is a soothing loam between my toes.
A hermit crab scuttles across my foot.
I swear, he grinned at me, just ask him.
Oops. He’s gone.
As I turn my gaze upward and take in the rippling sky,
I feel my lungs shall burst.
Though if not for my anatomy,
I think I could stay here forever.
Paddling out my goodbyes, I am now on the rise,
Escorted by what seems like millions of cascading tiny fish.
Higher and higher I climb,
Heading a parade I know only I shall finish,
As one by one they peel off, and once more I am alone.
Eyes shut tight, I break the surface.
Pulling myself back up onto the small wooden dock.
My skin shines bright with the dampness
Now rolling in small beads down my thighs.
I hug my knees to my chest and stare at the vastness before me.
The air is cool, still morning.
I’ve never felt more alive.