I like how sunflowers turn
Their faces
To the heavens
With no fear, my darling,
No fear.
And when your silent fingers
Brush my cheek like I am a
Canvas
I , too, drink the sun
My eyes cannot stop drawing
Curly-q’s
Across your body across across
Your soul
If arms could ever feel like an
Old house then yours,
Well I could feel the weathered walls
Of your tenderness

If only you could leave that feeling
behind
Before you go,

before you go

I bought curtains so we could close them.
Yes, blinds work just fine.
But perhaps I’m a romantic and believe
We can really close out all but us
With fabric and words and closed eyes

I’ll never tell you about these dreams I have
Where there is only a long stretch of road
And I don’t even know if we are driving,
Or walking, or simply sitting
Watching the road,
Holding hands,
Listening to the music of the air

You’ll never know that when I can’t sleep
I wake up and watch your eyelashes
So very gently fluttering with a dream
And I almost almost touch your hair
To feel you there
Or to feel you touch me back
Oh, how my heart would soar-

With you, the rain’s soft thunder
And the night’s warm laughter

Are music, music,

The lightning in my bones

I love the sound of living-
ice cubes clinking in an empty glass
the gentle creak of an opening door
baby sleeping, whisper breathing.
Drapes swishing open
to let morning ooze in,
and whispered “I love you’s”
into long distance telephones.

I hate the sound of people
giving up, giving in
that ugly squash of a leather
bootprint
as a dictator takes the stand.
Or that horrible thing called
crying
that simmers and steeps itself
like tea
dripping, white pear acid
on war-torn soil and blood.

I love the sound of forgiveness
Knowing some things will be alright
a kettle whistling on the stove
at midnight
to nullify nightmares still moist
And blanketed words traveling
wrinkled water;
a helpless hand reaching

Savior.

Sweet, whistling
savior.

Flowers woven in arches
Great gaping realms of color and canyon
Willows that dip dangerously into
What we knew to be reality
Fantastic failures:

The light is a butterfly
Reflecting images of their once memories
They don’t know
How relates the fury of a storm
They can’t know
How hard the wind will blow
When callused fingers caress the piano keys
Because they could only saunter by and
Fantasize
Of his next fabric of chords and melodies

Allegro!
Rubato!
Fortisimmo!
One dramatic dynamic
Red letter action that inspires
Fabulous, indescribable, luscious
Nightmares with dark classics
Jive with swing numbers long lost in their reveries
-such graceful sounds
Can we call them Earthly sounds
Oh what hurricanes they bring

Candid architecture solidifies
The society’s history major-
-recurring dreams
How they failed, plethora of hopes
Dashed

But the music
Kills the beast

Funny how we all woke up
standing still
with our arms reaching for the sky
in a blue twilight too young for dawn.

Some mornings it was movement
that dredged our eyes to the vivacity
of sunrise
or sometimes it was soft sounds--
maybe our calico pattering and puffing away
the morning dew across the kitchen floor.
But when we awoke there
all standing together
(shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand)
it was like the assimilation of earth and beyond
had come to pound down our door

That day was to be our
[up]rising
birds singing after a thunderstorm
or water trickling into a desert
we were to be the catalysts
but weren’t afraid.

I held an arm over my belly
trying to feel her tiny heart
beat
and sense that life that has become
my own;
wanting to cradle my baby girl
and sing her sweet lilting lullabies

The crib sat silently, waiting
already lined with blankets, sheets
and a colorful fish mobile.
We talked to each other, sometimes
since we shared the same wanting

He spread his fingers on my
belly
in the morning before the sun
rose
When the rain still pattered on the
rooftop at dawn
he held us,
me and our little girl;
kept us warm until day broke

The lights were too bright
and the room too cold
and I was screaming-
and,
and then crying.
Crying for her closed eyes
and blue face.

I held an arm over my
belly
trying to feel her heart
beat
wanted to cradle my baby
girl
to sleep

Sunday morning and I’m tucking
piano sonatas in my skirt.
He’s setting the gun and I’m
making peace blankets.
He is war.
I am I am I am air.

Tuesday night and he’s floating
candles on lily pads off the canoe.
I’m wetting my feet.
He’s rowing soundlessly
dreaming of geography
and I’m hitching my skirt
to jump into the water.

His pinstripe jacket looks better
on the floor
Wednesday afternoon
he’s apologizing but I’m too late
pressing my lips to the door
I throw open
the IamIamIam air prayer
he’s apologizing but
setting the gun
clicking in ammunition
aiming aiming at my heart…

When he pulled the trigger
I bet I bled music notes.