if only I could
curl
up like the armadillo
when i'm sleeping

there would be no soft underside
to be pierced by my nightmares

and maybe I would wake
without
pain

if I could forget again
all the things
that I have remembered
and all the things
that I have not remembered

maybe there would be
no nightmares
in the first place

Spent the afternoon
In bed
On my regular
Scheduled
Day off.

Kept dreaming
That people
Were trying to
**** me.

My folks
Are saying
I don't look good.

Maybe tomorrow
Will be better

when I began to write
poetry
all those years ago

I was amazed to find
that I even
had a voice.

It was a gift
that I never
hoped for.

I only shared light.

There is too much
darkness.

And then
little by little
I had to write
about the monsters
in the deep.

And my writing
got to be
unrecognizable.

Those couldn't be
my words.

Don't bury me
in a grave
in a big old box
I've known too much
darkness.

And so here I am
trying to balance
injury
with hope for a new future

That may be called
healing.

I keep my inner poet
Put away.
She is dangerous.
Doesn't understand her own power.
She thinks she can fly
And she'll make you believe
That you can, too.
But her wings are paper thin.
Too fragile for flight.

Her eyes shine too much
When the poetry is flowing.
I've seen the devastation
That can follow in her wake.

Grown men don't believe
In poetry.
Get lured in by siren songs.
Feel cheated
when the music ends.

I keep her put away
And hold my gaze on my hands
In the dirt.

We are safer that way.

But i need a day
To lay in bed
And twine toes with somebody
And stare at the ceiling

A day to talk
About nonsense
And be really heard

And laughter
I could use
Lots of that

I just need
A day

Or two or three

I haven't seen
So many angels
Hiding
In the clouds
Since John died.

They seem to be
Equipped for war.

Necesito
Todo
Los angeles.

My heart is heavy.

Some girls
Have butterflies
Beautiful winged elegance
Flying through their cerebrums

Me?

I've got old ghosts
That turn into whiskey drunk monsters
Saying
"I should put a bullet
In your brain".

I saw him yesterday.
Standing in front of me.
Blowing his brains out
Over and over.

A movie stuck on repeat
In my brain.

And some small part
Of me
Hopes he does it.
So he doesn't come after me
Anymore.

Maybe
The monster is me.

I was going to write
a poem today.

I've been reading
poets
every spare moment.

I've been sorting
through
the rubble
of the last six months.

Conversations
have worn me thin
just now

maybe I'll just
go home
and take a nap.

I tried, Lord,
I tried.

I protected him as often
and with what
little strength I had.

He punched me
in the stomach
when he thought
the neighbor wasn't watching.

And his eyes said
plain enough
that he could **** me
before mom got home
and I would barricade
myself in my room
til she pulled in the driveway
and act like every
thing was fine.

When dad died
he called the funeral home
and threatened
everybody.

I can't keep him anymore.
Even if
his blood cries to me
from the ground.

my sister-in-law
who I know
by face and name
asked me to share happy memories
to comfort
her children

she doesn't know
that I don't have
memories
good or bad

waiting at my mother's
before the funeral
I suggested
that we get out photo albums
to pass the time
and find a memory

she couldn't be bothered
she was afraid
we would take the photos

maybe she doesn't have
memories either

I do have
plenty of nightmares
maybe remembering
is easier
when you sleep.

the day my brother died
I had psychic visions
all day
of him coming to my work
and blowing his brains out
in front of me

I wasn't surprised
much by the phone call

Today I had another
vision
it was me
stabbing myself
in the stomach
with an English scalping knife

and I don't know
what it is supposed
to mean

Because I'm sitting
at McDonald's
with my daughter
on the free wifi

I can't be dead.

I am impatient
Too often
With conversations
These days

And i can't
Say the reason
Out loud

But if a body
Could hear
The conversation
Going on in
My brain

Well, I guess,
It might make
More sense.

I've been waiting to grieve
as if
the aftermath of Death
will come calling
like a long-jilted lover.

Maybe
I have forgotten
how to miss
the dearly departed
and there will be
no more tears.

I've been watching the road.
Nobody wearing somber colors
has come
walking up the hill yet.

There is no
plaintive song
calling on the wind.

I was my brother's keeper
for many years.
Maybe
I am too angry
to weep.

I've wiped the coffee table
Down with windex
At least three times.

But here I sit.

Watching them wander
Trying to remember
To breathe.

And waiting for details
Of my brother's suicide.

I was a poet, a healer and a woman
once
a dreamable woman
who got behind his eyes

I learned about flying
too

I still dream about flying

so ****** pragmatic these days

Afraid to write

Afraid to fly

He said my wings
really stoked the fire
once

And now I remember
why I am afraid to fly

sitting at mcdonald's
on the free wifi
sipping sweet tea
and reading
all the offerings here

a cold chill
bent me over

and I thought of
the new cold war
that threatens to ignite

and somewhere
comes the idea
that someone
is walking on my grave

it could well be

one of my daughter's young friends
confided a blessed event last summer
I decided to make the bundle of joy
a quilt to keep forever

I cut the blocks out
in October

the baby made her appearance
in December
the blocks haven't sewed themselves
together yet

maybe soon
the family is traveling south
for the summer
an internship

hopefully I will be inspired
to do the sewing soon

the other morning I woke to a commotion
a bird got in the house
and the cat found it
gato got a few good licks in
Anna locked him in the living room
and we encouraged the bird
out the kitchen door

later that night
when I got home from the fort
I found a colleague of the black bird
door nail dead in the upstairs hallway
black claw feet sticking straight up

I hoped it was a different bird.
Not the one we saved.
But what method to my madness
that one bird was worth more
than the other?

a little poem came and perched
on my night stand
last night late
it sang the newest song
I've heard
in months and years

I thought it would wait
hang around
until I got ready to write it

but it flew far
away

on good days
I carry a trash bag
around the yard
and pick up messes
others have left

I have a hole in my foot
where I stepped on a nail
and my hands are torn
my shoulder
is complaining loudly

but it is close to
growing time
my windowsills are filled
with dirt covering seeds

a few more fires
to burn the brush
and my neighbors
should be prouder of me

the slurs don't work anymore
I know i'm not a *****
and I don't care
whether or not you think
I am a good woman

I don't owe you
any more

you can threaten my life
if it makes you feel bigger
but you can't
take the power of my being

My anger is showing.

The capitol is full
Of treason and misogyny.

Pressure is building.
Boiling hot lava
Could erupt.

And I'm just over here
Making lard and yarn.
Not necessarily in that order.

I guess it is a good thing
That i wasn't made
winged and fire-breathing.

Just trying really hard
Not to destroy
Anything
In my path.

sitting at mcdonald's
I clicked 'add poem'
and I thought about
all the words I have
today

impatience and anger
blue blues

I think I better go home
and clean the bath tub

no poeting today

this morning

seems that was
the battle cry
for some movement
pushed out of our minds
by more insistent
and newer news

maybe it is the weather

maybe it is
some mid-life crisis
afflicting me
at the mcdonald's
while I use the free wifi

whatever it is

I will win
this battle too

just like
every other one
so far

I've worked so hard
to blend into the woodwork
I knitted myself
an invisibility cloak
and I wear it
everywhere I go

because if they can't
see me
then they can't hurt me

one of these days
when my nightmares
stop killing me

maybe I will begin
to reappear again

every morning
I wake up to find
a handful of slightly chewed
wooden scrabble tiles
arranged artlessly
around my bed

could it be

that the little dog
is trying
to tell me something?

I knew a poet once.

He was the top of a tall mountain
of all the best words.

Fighting.

His words were a war
against social injustice
of all times.

His face was beautiful
with scars and lines
that remembered
every battle.

There was Issa, and a bowl of soup.
I remember the fly that buzzed
in the windshield
and tears behind sunglasses.

Why do poets set
like suns?

I had a vision once

jeeps and dust
an apocalyptic America
and I was scared

this morning I stood in the shower
thinking
maybe I should tell my daughter
to let her hair grow
to pretend to have a boyfriend

our system of checks and balances
is being stomped on
civil liberties
and inalienable rights
are extinct

psychic vision
is poised to become reality
and I never imagined
it would be our own government
holding us hostage

this is not a poem

I have been absent

for days and weeks.

I have been cleaning
and sewing

and trying to quiet the anger
that I can't control
in light of this new America.

They say there will be a day
when federal monies
will be revoked from arts programs.

I suggest we start looking for ways
to protect the voices
the ones that are real and true
*and not alternative

One of these days
When i clear myself
Of the wreckage
Heaped by my own personal
Hurricane
I will write some words
So pretty
That you won't notice
The devastation
All around me.

We'll light a candle
For peace on earth
Goodwill
Toward men.

The hawk must be the only one.

I know he sees me -
He makes a sign.
A secret code
That siblings use
When speaking straight
Might ensnare.

I walk through worlds
With quiet steps.
But not too near
That any see
Or feel my breath
Or even guess.

Yes.

The hawk may be
The only one.

My wings are straight.
My wings are strong.
And one day soon
I'll fly to him.

Once in a while
The wind picks up
That old ghost
Gets lonely
And starts thinking
about me.

The tremors hit land
Before the words do
And sometimes
I am tempted
To walk out
Into the squall
To see if I can be lifted up
Into the jet stream
Like the buzzards do.

The sun is shining today
There are no clouds
Maybe the storm is passed.

I want to pick my own dream.

There should be a kiss
At the base of my neck.

And wrinkled sheets.

And a long, hot shower
With arms that wrap around.

I've been patiently
Waiting

No more nightmares,
Okay?

I hope that I
Inspire you in a good way.
The way that
You inspire me.
Too much wine
Can give you a terrible headache
And I don't like it
When consequences
Meet the cold light of day.

I always want to give
The best part of myself
And you--
Are no exception.

Maybe I wonder
If there even is a best part.

This is what inspired looks like
Today.

I am not afraid of the storm.
Or of the wildness of the winds.

I am not afraid of the darkness.
Even my nightmares
Have little power to frighten
Any more.

I am not afraid to die.
There is very little mystery left.

what is left?
You may be wondering

that may be a conversation
For another day

Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.

We talk about roots
And I have some concept
Spent my summer
Digging up plants
And moving them
To other places.

I was the self-proclaimed
Smiling Creator

But my heart
Is at home
In the hills

I can breathe here
And it has always
Been so

Limestone
Is in my bones

The sound the hawk makes
Is my blues

My dream said
I was avoiding
That old ghost

And I said
Good

After twenty five years
Of hitting
And missing
I don't need
To go anywhere
Near there
Anymore

I have a hard time
Being literal

Explanations travel
In fits and spurts
With sometimes
No suitable
answer at all

And maybe
The truth is slanted
And you will
Divine it
On some cloudy day.

We will get there,

There is an ache
That sits in my chest
When I read your poetry

I sit long
Trying to wrap
My arms around
Something

Want so badly
To soothe an ache
Yours
Or mine

And so I sit

And sometimes
Just like that
I see
What I have been
Seeing

And
I understand
This path
I'm on

The darkness
Lifts
And the fog
Clears
Though
I don't mind
Either

And I see
Straight enough
To step
Forward

Three times so far
This week
I have felt
His thoughts run
Electric
Along my body.

I can't see
His face.

Can't say for certain
What direction
The thoughts travel
From

Just my luck
To feel
And be blind
All at the same time

If I were to write you a poem

I might appeal to your senses

Tastes and smells
That trigger comfort
And satiety

Images that make a man
Stand taller

There would have to be
A mountain
And some tall trees.

If I were to write you a poem

There would be a hand to hold
Shining eyes
And communication without words

One day soon
I will write it

I took a freshbaked pie
To show Bob today.
Stranger asked-
What kind is it?

Sweet potato-
And I kept walking

Heard him say
I thought she was flirting.

But I don't
Flirt.

If the work of my hands
Doesn't entice

And the work of my mind
Doesn't intrigue

And the sparkle of my eyes
Doesn't embolden

well, you know what they say
In the south

But I don't flirt

When my kids were little
And climbed in my bed
Complaining of a headache
Or a stomach ache
I would wrap my arms around
The problem
And just about the time
They were cured
And drifting off to sleep
I would feel it.

I have had a few successes
In my life
The way I understand success
anyway.

My mother obsessed herself
With breast cancer
Until she finally had it
Then looked to me
To take it away.

I think she would trade
My life for her own.

it isn't my place
To choose.

I wonder though
At the eternal admonition
"Physician, heal thyself"

My pain
Is still very present.

I've been seeing
That old hawk
In some very strange places.

Feathers askew

Too tired
To fly above the storm

My messenger
Has something to say

But he is too weary
To spill it
Just now

I never
Look for myself
In a mirror

That face never
Recognizes me
Back

Maybe in your words

Maybe in the lines of your poems

I will see
Something familiar
That seems like me

It isn't uncommon for war veterans
To meet
In our little log cabins.

Nice gentleman from Tennessee/Air Force
Was in today
With his attentive son.

Marine vet/fort manager
Thanks him for his service
And wanders off.

Air Force retiree
Asks former army ranger
If he's seen the movie
"We were soldiers".

Who replies
I don't have to see it.
I was there.