i held two hands and
one let go but one remained
and i clung to it

i think i still held
on even when you let go
i think i still am

Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs,
whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle,
mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer
I passed on like hemophilia,
or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen
smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted
with bringing them this far
can do nothing now but pray.

Let us put your three children
and my two children,
ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one,
and send them in a large air net up to God,
with many stamps, real air mail,
and huge signs attached:
SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE!
And perhaps He will notice
and pass a psalm over them
for keeping safe for a whole,
for a whole ******* life-span.

And not even a muddled angel will
peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time
to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us,
the mothering thing of us,
as we drip into the soup
and drown
in the worry festering inside us,
lest our children
go so fast
they go.

dead bodies floating
in our oceans
from the Asian Pacific
to the Mediterranean

crumpled corpses lying
on our beaches
thousands drowned unknown

overcrowded detention centers
not unlike concentration camps
behind barbed wires
guarded by police and snarling dogs

nobody feels responsible

not  those who started wars
destroyed whole cities
made millions homeless
and into refugees

not those who take advantage
of the chaos for their own gain
abusing the names of their gods
or some ancient figurehead
to excuse their atrocities and greed

not those who live
in comfortable homes
and wish the desperate crowds
would just stay on the TV screen
and not come close

nor those who pretend
to be the guardians
of our great humanitarian heritage
but show no backbone
against nationalist fanatics

it is the shame of the world
to sit and talk and watch
and not do enough

those who turn away
the needy and homeless
could also
      quite suddenly
lose their homes

forced to rely
on the kindness of strangers

bathed in the cool light of the moon,
my sweet puppyhead and me,

sit.

under the full soft light, 
her ray’s illuminating the yard,
the woods.

footsteps crunch drying leaves,
fox, deer or foe?

waning canopy,
boughs lighter each day.

fall, majestic, peaceful
dying for another year.

plants and creatures, 
taking refuge in the deep dark void
of mother earth,
of mother nature.

squirreling away tidbits for a late winter snack,
coats blooming, thickening.

such delight, 
each night,
sitting outside,
my puppyhead and me.

quiet and solitary,
no humans 
annoying me.

silent and still
only nocturnal creatures
meandering about.

what magic,
what sacredness.
what mystical delight.
never apart,
only the ONE.

such silly confusion,
thinking a person,
separate and small,
quaking with fear.

the big deep dark mystery
laughing and jovial,
always here,
here for us all.

open your eyes, 
feel your nature,
always here,
never apart.

fearing death
fearing life,
what a silly way to live this
life!

the moment you were born,
you began dying,
what a relief,
knowing the score!

relaxing into the madness,
laughing at it all,
pure and free,
forever more, 
and not……

being,
not being,
eons of reflection,
sages and rishis
revealing the truth,
it can’t be done for you,
only you can become 
that which you are….
that which you always were.

my sweet love, my sweet life,
my puppyhead and me,
sitting here in Fall.
~~~

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Nights, we take the boat out
paddle our way green through water
swum by inlet waves, full moon apace
shadowy, ancient tribal faced
lose all trace of the shore, black
but for phosphorescence
glowing, trailing from the oars
a haunting ghostly art
green and breathing, disappearing
back into darkness, swallowed
by black water, by night
strange this death,
this rebirth and breath
felt in each and every moment.

The first word in Arabic
You ever taught me
Was Aoheb:

Love,
Spelled G-I-V-E
The kind that
I forgot what I was
When I felt you holding me.

But only privately.

Like crossing the street,
We look both ways
Before our hands meet.
Because even though
it's okay for me
Culturally..

We don't do that
Until we're married.

But just like
The next words
You taught me,
Ana fahemt:
I understand.

Like that time
I called you a beautiful Woman..
You got so mad because
You want to stay a girl forever.

Baby,
I never
Want to grow up
Together

I want to grow in.

So give me a garden
To come home to
Give me a heart
I can roam through

When it's 3AM
And both of us
Have ****. to. do.

One day,
When we're tired
Of learning each other's language
You can call me Frankie,
And frankly,
I'll fly you to the moon.

Give my very breath to you
I'll keep you so warm
In my arms that baby,
Your blood will boil.

And I don't mean to spoil the fun
But could you please put that
Super cute face of yours away?

Because
Your smile,
Is so bright
Solar radiation
Needs sunglasses.
And even though
You're sweet as molasses
I don't think that Nasa's
Satellites can handle that
Amount of sunshine right now.

I think
"Ana bufuker."
...really? .. "Ana buhfucker?..
Whatever.. Ana bafaker:
I think,
Google translate is awful.
Especially when it involves
Conversations with your
Your dad and me

Because honestly
I always think I'm gonna
Say the wrong thing
At the wrong time.

And I always just end up
Saying the wrong thing
at the wrong time.
But somehow you always
Seem to know how to
read my mind.

So
Habiby. Aomry. Hayaty.
My love, My life, My age...

...And the rest of the poem is none of your business.

Truly. It's between that girl and I.
But I will say this though:
We don't talk much anymore
And I'm not really sure why.
But I know that
Somewhere out there,
In-between all of the *******
Of our daily lives;

There is a girl that
Is going to speak my language.