Mama likes to turn it up high.
Croon like there’s nothing but sweet, heartbreaking men
he tells her he loves her like there isn’t another woman
loving him forever is what she needs

Croon like there’s nothing but sweet, heartbreaking men
Shakes her head like she’s heard it through the grapevine.
loving him forever is what she needs
Dancing with the mop like he’ll stay true.

Shakes her head like she’s heard it through the grapevine
“Ain’t no mountain high enough!”  gaze turned up, looking for the one
Dancing with the mop like he’ll stay true
He’s just another man, he isn’t Motown.

“Ain’t no mountain high enough!” gaze turned up, looking for the one
he tells her he loves her like there isn’t another woman
He’s just another man, he isn’t Motown.
Mama likes to turn it up high.

Cats cry as classical music plays
and furniture floats in some box far off
We hold our heads low, only hands move
to roll down windows while leaving
a place we never called home.

California, did you feel me reach for you
between heaving breaths as father
passes Main Street toward the highway?
and mama smiles, cringes, throws her
chest forward
Merge for incoming traffic but there
isn’t anyone else on the highway
headphones like blindness or alternate
realities where mama and I are not just an expense.

Pennsylvania and Super 8 Motel
Where we rush in carrying the cats
in towels to make them look like laundry
not having enough to pay the pet deposit
red brown bed covers- bad blood
between mother and father
as they cannot agree on a tv station
miles to go and
everyone sighs and sips at their excitement

Stop at an exit toward a hotel without a pool
in Nebraska
where people take their drink dry
or ***** or depressed
mama and papa get one on the rocks
with stares and snots from men wearing
cowboy hats and desperately fat belt buckles
papa imitates a gay man
mama is confused
dust for $85 a night
two travelers, one to return
headed for gold
but not for good

States run by with motive unknow
Dog rests her head on my lap as
we cross the line and I ask to
stand by the sign
both agree it is too dangerous
I weep and wish to open the doors
we do, and the air is different, like taking off a mask
I wanted to embrace the ground we now
walked on, with feverish kisses meant for the trees

Papa leaves and drives all the way back
with promises on his shoulders
while mama and I unpack boxes
silverware, bedsheets, posters
with the expectation of a return
that never happens

We collapse the boxes labeled fragile
open the shades, and stop waiting for
a man who isn’t traveling,
a place,
a destination.

(Prelude)
They told me that before I walked, I climbed like ivy
on the backs of those old enough to know what it
felt like to support something.
I hope you’re tall enough to climb
because staying close to the ground
won’t get either of us anything but
fleshy fingers and pale legs that haven’t
felt the embrace of branches.


The Manzanita grove sits squat and clustered,
heavy grandparents, gossiping about which child had
the best education.
Strips of light- spilling through oval and jade leaves
spread out like dough between four branches.
“Well, my girl has got the legs to be a dancer”
“Mine has roots that lead right back to the Queen of England”
They fall asleep midday, the chatter having
made their red bark peel.
Try to tip toe between the trunks or they will
wake and keep you around to fatten you up
with a combination of *** roast and home grown herbs
slightly wilted from too much time in the sun.



greedy fool who should bite his tongue and try
climbing an oak for a change in perspective.
Stradling the trunk with slender legs
bark scraping the unscathed skin.
Pulling upward for filtered light always
partial always
half the story.

what is it about a stickshift that makes everything better?
the door handles would always
freeze on cold mornings.
we would have to brace our feet against the ice
lean back far to open a door.
mama would slip back and fling herself into the driver’s seat
a beckon for me to jump in before the line got
too long at the store and all the
coffee went cold.
we liked to pretend we could drive to the beach from here,
swerve around corners where everyone still lay sleeping,
roll up to some deserted boardwalk and collect
sea glass to keep in the glove box.
shifting gears after the stoplight, too slow for
commuters who pass by with raised middle fingers.
she pulls over, breathes hard, screams.
I lean my chair back, taking in the scent of
bananas we had let rot under the seat
and cup her hand like I understand what’s going on.
she starts the engine with a splutter and we laugh
like we didn’t just run away, laugh like
punches weren’t thrown as we pass by,
no punch backs.
two women
laughing
like a yellow beatle could make anything better

I wish I could go back and
change what I said
You are so much more than
unique
with bright eyes returning from the battle.
You keep waking up.
I once knew how to breathe air that wasn’t filled
with my own need.
But this isn’t about me.
Mia. Mine.
I want to give you tight squeezes to my chest
keep you from the pain
that I never could have recovered from.
So on this day, remember what you felt,
what you will never stop feeling.

Fists closed, cheeks turned upward
tongue out.
Rain feels like moonlit kisses and you want
nothing more than to drown
in their sweet caresses
Fall asleep to the sound of mandolin,
baby, you’re miles from here.
You daydream of dolphins and glasses
unbroken
baby you’ve got work to do here.
Dig toes into half wet sand
salty silences grace each curve of your
hands as you want to
pray
instead, you smile
laugh like you’ve just seen the Queen
dip her chipped tea cup into the
ocean before you.
You grow.
Look in the mirror and notice
hair, body, face
recognize your little rebellions as you make
mistake after beautiful mistake
Feel the weight of the last day of
moving away
remember what safe sounds like.
Ride boats in the night
take the wheel and
you’re flying you
always have been.
Return to the shore
hope to flop your belly to the land
hold it close not
drift away
never go back the way the water went.
Taste pasta smooth as that man you once met
on Maple St.
You devour the coyote calls and dark halls
bit by bit
baby, you’re moving alone here.
Feel your own baby
feel his little breath and puckered
toes.
Kiss his nose and weep like
Mother Mary must have. Like
every mother must have.
Catch him as he runs from you
swing him round and read aloud
“the end” watch him say
again again
Move aside as he grows tall
You work long shifts now
tips taste like new shoes for
Chase good food a day
out of the house.
Feel your mother around you and she
has to go
“traveling”
she might have said.
You take father’s ashes you take
the basket with a story
dedicated to you.

You can’t go back now
You face forward, hand plates to the hungry
hope to hand them your own doubt
You dance to
Dave Matthew’s Band
you didn’t think too much of it.
Touch the fuzz on her head
feel grateful she has all of her fingers.
Let your bones rest
let them be.
You watch them grow.
Too quickly to pause but
take in every second before they
can fly too.
You are sick but
you keep waking up.
Move happily from sand to water
take in laughter from the other side.
Grow, grow as you drive
2,736.5 miles to a new home where
Maddie will bring you raspberries
and talk of smelly ghosts in the next room.
Where you’re son will nearly die and live
again. Bringing what light he can.
drive away sea air again the water is
darker somehow. Feel the pull of California
you are coming home.
Unpack boxes filled with past treasures
beam at memory and intended scrapbooks
keep on keepin on
scream with joy as
September plays
baby, you’re 16 again
hips sway and pain fades away.
There’s more to taste, so much more from
this day.

(the first time I accepted a cigarette, he had rolled it
himself, smiling gap-toothed and weary eyed,
naked on the porch.)

tomorrow, a homeless man downtown will *** a smoke
from a lonely drunk fellow who burned his divorce papers
the night before.

(I didn’t want to cough
but it hit like history
biased and bruised.)

thirty years ago my grandfather sat at a typewriter
surrounded in blue vapor waving my young mother in
to ask her what life was like and how he hoped she
wasn’t smoking.

(We wanted to look like a 40’s black and white film, but
there’s nothing
romantic about burnt fingers)

the homeless man chuckles as the drunk fellow
tells his story of burnt agreements and
the way the smoke smelled like his wife’s perfume
on another man’s jacket.
they sing the smokey song
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.
they shake hands, part ways.

(he laughs when I need
a full cup of water
to rid the webs from my lungs)

mama leans back in her chair
pulls a pack from her pocket
one left.
her father breathes and then it’s time to
sing the smokey song.
inhale, exhale, laugh.  inhale, exhale, sigh.

(I walk to the kitchen
worrying about splinters, black tar
oblivious to passing cars, fathers, the future.
Reach for incense so mother won’t know I’ve been singing the
smoky song, the one where breath resembles
gray satin ribbons,
the one where I
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.)

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.
His mouth a respectful parallel line,
his eyes a beacon to alert us of incoming disaster
one where bombs erupt behind his wide shoulders
one where smoke clouds his view.
He is a shield of false hope
“Everything is alright” and
“this has gone terribly wrong” cover his brow as
winkles, reasonings, excuses, all over

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.
His lips quiver slightly as he raises a lingual gun
to the opposing side
only to lower it moments later with
a look of surprise that graces his cheekbones.
He is a weapon of mass destruction
a solid reflection lies underneath the mirror
one side of the body a beckon, the other a halt

Anderson Cooper has a beautiful face.

Scream, throw yourself to ***** cement
take off your shoes
you want to pull away strips of skin
to reveal what’s really just
lonely little pieces of people you’ve tried on like hides.
You are two parts animal
paw at tree trunks
marking territory, yours all
yours.
Pull up dandelions,
look around for the killer
Paws trembling, sending shockwaves
through cracked dirt.

Laugh, throw your head in my lap
take off your shoes, braid my hair
We walk down south main and
you want to give all your money to a homeless man
you know he
could just as easily be you.
Torn pants, clinging to a cigarette pack like a lifeboat
No, you only want to be a vagabond on the stage
fling your voice to the crowd, keep their gaze.
dance with your arms outspread, yours all
yours.
make love with a glance,
sway your hips to reveal
hibiscus from your palms, the sort of deep
red  I can almost taste.

Bite your tongue until it bleeds
clench your brow, run bare foot
through paths winding like scars.
Lick your lip, looking for traces of sea salt
find it there, smile like there’s nothing better
than bittersweet

Know that when the dust settles
I will sit with you
and watch
the animal teach the boy
how to survive in the wild.

what you choose it bound to
your skin
spooled tightly around
your ankles
gray and black rivulets
tight rope on the ground
walking straight, walking clean
watch your feet or you might
fall on to the
wrong path one where
men wave their thumbs at you on
the highway
while you swerve and
bend no tightrope
no
haywire haze on your
window shield
your parents want you to
pick up pieces of cloud
bring them back to
their aching heels
curved around the coils of
gray and black.
you’ll always wish they
could see how low
your wire is
how close you are to
jumping down and resting
your feet a while
maybe it’s time they
get themselves a thicker piece of land.