She folded my little pudgy toddler hand and said, "this means 'I love you' in sign language". And since then, it's been every special goodbye and family signal. They've spread out farther as I got older, but every once in a while I'll get to see my Mommy hold her big, scarred hand up so I can see that she loves me. My eyes will fill up with happy tears because this is us and this is love and this cannot be changed.

New love.
New day.
Some strange sunrise in the
Eyes of the man she just
Possibly chose over
Many.

Not her preference at all, she
Thought, then closed her hand
Around her past, and with one
Last squeeze, let it go.
A man with issues and demons
Different than

The rest of them.
A soft touch -that new too-
And a habit of buying her lilies.
New love.
New day.
Some strange sun setting over

A lifetime of raised hands and
Voices.
Give me days, years, or more,
He whispers.
Love focused on feelings, not
Flesh.

And I will stand with
You. Lay
With you. Walk
Barefoot through
Meadows and minefields
With you.

Glove tossed in a challenge of
Love.
He braces his heart for her
To accept.
I'm bracing my heart for hers
To accept.

Zoom in. See your heart at its
Most spectacular through an
Electron microscope.

I've come to embrace our
Lack of foreverness, yet
Witness it through

Our faint touches hidden
Behind backs while passing.
No, there is nothing divine

Here. No shade of an angel's
Wing over our hearts as they
Stroke each other fleetingly,

Just two pieces of mud in a
World of dirt and
Water.

A broken man in a complete
Galaxy; I carry my pieces with  
My back straight.

This scarred heart is weak, but
My arms are well trained from
Taking its loads.

I'll carry yours when you need
Me to. Zoom out. See our joined
Hearts through a telescope.

Milky Way doorways.
The magical kissing of a neck
Across a threshold.

"I know it's back. I can feel it;
The pressure behind the eyes..."*

He's sixty. Missing front teeth
Make his grins cartoonish

And contageous. Some days
Colleague, others

Father.
Now, hammer-steel

Eyes well up. Hands like
Shovels pretend to scratch the

Bridge of his nose.
Devil Cancer. Ugly, old *******.

When he passes on, Valhalla
Awaits.

Don't tell me there's no battle
In this.

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

Eyes of gods upon my
Every move.

I have nothing to hide. Such
Sweet freedom to

Stand for your every sin and
Uncencored secret.  

Back straight, and perfectly
Human.