every once in a while
i send you a note
two words
simple and true
'forgive me'

the ritual started
as a way
to say
goodbye
when i died
and before i was
reborn

so every once in a while
i re-trace old scars
and beg you
to forgive me

and when you answer,
if you answer
you say you already have
forgiven
me

but your voice
doesn't feel like forgiveness
and your heart feels hard

and i keep hoping
that one day i will ask again
and you will say
'forgive me'

my mother
always went to psychics
and palm readers
there were things
she wanted to know

lately
i've been looking
at the lines on my hand
and they
never seem to be
in the same place

i wonder
what a palm reader
might have to say
about that

i haven't seen
one of those neon signs
in years and years
i doubt that i could
in all good conscience
push aside the curtain
of curiosity
to ask the question

i am half tempted
to trace all the lines
in permanent black marker
to see
if i can see
how far they wander

things have been
a little
tumultuous
lately

storms
keep popping up
on the
horizon

and maybe
the roof
blew off once
or
twice

i have learned
to be
suspicious
of clouds

but maybe
if you hold my hand
i will learn
to thrill
in the thunder again

i want to
walk through
your voice

i dare not
ask

i can not
dial
your number

but i long to wade through words
hear you laugh
one more time

i am missing
your arms
but i would

gladly settle
for the warmth of your voice

love isn't always
hearts and roses

sometimes
it's an ashtray
perched precariously
between us

sometimes it's a
purple crocus
blooming
in January

sometimes it's just
the smile
I see
in your eyes

the smiling creator
takes his light in his hands
and whispering something
of lovely summer
places tiny seeds in pots
and hovers close
anticipating the joys
of imperceptible growth

I remember you
your whispered half-questions
resembling the thoughts I almost had
on another cloudy day.
Your honest words filled me,
tempted  me into flights of
unexplored consciousness
and step by step I ventured
farther from my own locked doors.
I wandered out alone
into bright, dead-of-day streets
full of my own possibilities
seized by my own fallibilities.
Some days I will meet the gaze
of the demons that haunt this world
but on others
when my self-fed fears are too much
I may need you to walk beside me.
Take my hand.
Your words are my strength.
Your strength is my hope.
My hope is your redemption.
We will save one another.

I've never liked
looking in the mirror.
Something about the reflection-
there-
never suited me.
That face couldn't be mine,
could it?
So today when
I felt your heart beating
in my chest
I wondered
at the strangeness of your particular rhythm
and how it beats so perfectly within me.
One day, maybe,
when time slants sideways
again
we will escape back into-
whatever it was-
we were before

I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much golden thread;
spellbound by my gentle whisper.
You are welcome to stay,
through spring rain
and autumn crisping,
though you still search
for someone with soft hands
and bountiful breast.
And when my gracious gifts spill over
from my full-grown lap,
you scoop them up with wondrous hands
and all the hunger
of a Lost Boy

sins of the past
however wrongly accused
should be forgiven--
let go; burnt offerings to falcon gods
sad ashes that float on the same winds
as yesterday's mis-spent dreams

am I then my father's daughter
blind and mute and imperfect?
unable to express the nervous tragedy
of days that follow after days

perhaps one morning my children
will offer these dry bones
on that same stone altar

perhaps I will be forgiven too

Like the ember
smouldering
unseen in the ashes,
my heart will someday
flame passionately.
One breath--
is all I need
to change this
seeming-charred soul
into a
furious
fire

Leftover yarn
wanted to be something
and so I began
to crochet stitches and rows
until it started
to resemble a scarf.
I thought of you
as my hands worked
how you would
appreciate the soft angora thread
how the length
of it would keep you warm
on cold days
when you might be missing me
it is yours, if you want it

I never was much
for rambling on and on about a thing
but if you could see my thoughts
well, then, I guess
you'd know