crammed in corrals
hissing whispers of escape
and hoping their
size and shade
captivates
the next sticky-fingered cart rider

mother's mind so mobbed
and arms so grocery-laden
that the ribbed
and loosely coiled ribbon
remains unknotted, unbowed
to slip
from pudgy-fingered grips

the orb bobs and sways–
laughing, helium-high
as it makes its getaway
unknowingly following Icarus
to a solar ******
that is, if beak or plane
doesn't reach it first

POP!
shattered and tattered, irreparable
it plummets back to earth

its noose
still dangling from its neck

I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
the periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
of pink and orange dahlias.

They came to a halt just above your ankles,
skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
size nine narrow.

And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
mine monkey-bar calloused.

We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
with dew from morning grass.

Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
and your sun for fluorescence.

And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
your garden pants.

The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.

The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle ***** Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****.

The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.

The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.

somehow we all ended up
stuck on the world's baggage carousel
     circling endlessly
                         unclaimed

left alone to our
disney dreams and bursting seams
and the in-betweens of a life iridescent

If my someday-daughter,
age six, tells me
she wants to trick-or-treat
dressed like Spiderman
or a fireman, because she dreams of
stopping the bad guys
and pulling cats from trees,
I will not require royalty from her.

I will not advise her choices
by asking if she’d rather be
Belle, Ariel, or Jasmine.
I will not concern myself with
princess-aisle gossip
as the mothers in the costume shop
gawk at my daughter
waltzing over to the boys’ section.

But should she ask for a gown and tiara,
I will adorn her with sparkles and frills,
all the while reminding her
that Disney didn’t create beauty,
and glass slippers are far too fragile
for feet that were made
to take this world by storm.

He perches on his black-crate bandstand,
stationed between the payphone and postbox.
The view from his seat never varies:
a restless audience of briefcases and knees.

He closes his eyes, concentrating
on breath becoming buzz becoming blare,
and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s
thunder-colored walls.

Each tone fills the pavement, square by square
until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip,
colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth.

Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod
obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined
to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind;
his own eyes secured until song’s end.

As long as his fingers are jumping,
he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall–
who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War;
he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith.

When he looks up once again,
sun and spirit have faded,
and he watches the evening embers
drift out of his horn.

The bar is a refuge for the lonely
in this diner with its
sugar-and-cream salt-and-pepper pairs
and coupled glasses lining the shelves

At the counter you can sit
with the booths for two at your back
and spoon your delicate date–
a well-dressed slice of coconut cream cake

Your scrawls slants rightward, with g's that look like s's.
The stamp is always square with the envelope's corner,
and you include the time of composition beneath the date.

Three months apart and I can hardly picture your hands anymore,
the way your left palm must drag behind the pen, leaving this trail
of smudgy footprints that tiptoe around your words.

I read of your dreams: to drive an old convertible down I-15,
listening to Tom Petty– the pinnacle of American existence, you say;
to have a daughter; to still go to concerts at age 40.

You tell me how you designate different books for bedtime
and for doing laundry. Sometimes you secretly listen to Colbie Callait.
And you've found yourself praying lately, most often for us.

You say you are thinking of taking up the banjo,
but will I ever get to watch your fingers wander its strings,
your tongue resting on your lower lip in concentration?

As my eyes scan the lines and I draft my reply, I find myself
wishing for more than a pen-pal-lover; that you would show up
at my door and I could hold the hand that crafts these words.

Your bedtime story version of us begins, "Once upon a time,
there were two extremely attractive, smart, funny, people..."
You wrote that you hope it has a happy ending.

*I hope so too.

You were the only grandmother I knew
who kept her hair long:
grey-white and slicked back
in a tight knot against your skull
with one black streak above your ear.

During your last visit the bun broke loose,
mane toppling down your spine.
My seven-year-old self peeked behind you,
expecting to see spiders
creeping out of the hoary webbing,
awaiting your command to crawl
into the tv set
my pillowcase
the toilet bowl,
hatching spider babies
until their army seized the whole house
and drove me out.

But instead,
it was your legs walking toward me,
your fingers clawing up my arm,
your lipstick-smudged mouth invading,
fogging my glasses,
whisper-growling:
Don’t look at me like that!
You’re lucky your mother’s upstairs
or I’d put the paddle on ya.
I think I would have preferred
the spiders.

Later, you took your cigarettes outside
and sat beneath the window.
Smoke drifted up the pane,
and I imagined you stirring it forth
from a gurgling cauldron
that sparked and seethed–
its smoky potion scent
of cobra venom and boiled hearts
lingering in your
witch’s locks.

Restless minutes passed by the tens.
Engines cut; a trio of teenage boys in ball caps
exited a truck, nature calling them to the roadside woods.

Passengers stepped out to stretch in the Oregon sunshine, made hazy
by lingering fumes of fuel and frustration. I met a plump old woman from Eugene
en route to help her son move into his new house.

"Surely things will start moving soon."
We exchanged theories of detours, wrecks, road work,
animals escaped from the zoo, rampaging down the highway.

She and I chuckled gently just imagining
the storm of spots and stripes; the blur of fur and feathers
fleeing toward long-awaited freedom.

We climbed back into our cages of metal and leather.
Doors slammed shut and buckles clicked into place
as we locked ourselves in.

Engines coughed the sleep from their coils, cranking to life,
and we waded single-file toward whatever was waiting,
leash in hand, frowning and foot tapping, for our late arrival.

Facebook tells me you have someone new
or really, not-so-new, as the dates on these photos
reveal that she was around long before
I even tied my shoes to leave.

Meanwhile, yours were fully laced, giving me
the runaround, and I see she was at your marathon
on Sunday, standing in the morning cold for 3 hours
just to watch your chicken legs shuffle across a finish line.

I’m sure she kept plenty warm though, wearing those
fingerless gloves she knits and sells on Etsy,
overpriced, with buttons that don’t attach to anything
while you’re attached to her.

A quick Google returns her MySpace page,
updated about two years too recently, and a YouTube video
of a song she wrote– two oscillating chords,
her voice trilling something about little birds.

The two of you are building tent forts held up by Christmas lights
and making s’mores in the living room fireplace
and she comments “if that’s not love...”
Trust me, sweetie– it’s not.

I stare out the double-paned window
of seat 9F, overlooking this
dollhouse world.

Some things below us are only
noticeable through a ginger-ale-laced
dream perspective.

My eyes trace the geometry of the boulevards
and buildings and baseball diamonds
that appear to have been drawn from above.

The motherboard cities, with ports and control
panels that never dim, cast orders
to faceless men.

Parks and forests speckle the firework sprawl
with inky patches of greenery where electricity dies
and minds and feet can wander.

I see squid-armed lakes and coral trees,
schools of cars in an asphalt sea, full of people
who forget that anyone else exists.

The world seems so beautiful and movable,
like blocks waiting to be knocked down,
rearranged, rebuilt.

But then: rooftop angles,
sidewalk divisions. Buildings rise
and the tarmac appears.

Wings shudder and wheels strike asphalt–
a collision you can never fully brace yourself for–
jarring me back inside my own head.

And I look over to the woman beside me,
only to find her still sleep-drooling
on a half-read SkyMall.

We went to Casa Carbone for dinner–
Mom doesn’t cook, and Ben was craving chicken parm.
The host sat us in our usual spot in the corner,
beneath the Sicilian landscape mural.

The white-skirted woman in its background
seemed to watch our every bite,
trying to spot what was wrong with the picture
that lay before her.

Napkins in laps, we pushed around conversation
as noodles ******* our forks
and the crimson tablecloth
hid the day’s spaghetti stains.

When it came time for boxes and the bill
the waiter finally posed the question
that none of us had had the courage to ask:
“Where’s Dad tonight, folks?”

He was beneath some other mural with someone else;
but without his RSVP, we couldn’t have known.
And so we chuckled at the waiter,
without a reply of our own,

because we hadn’t an answer, only each other–
the three of us
at a table set for four.

Harris Teeter was our concrete niche.
We called it Harry *****, and I would visit you there
your last summer at home.

You were a bag boy;
sometimes you corralled green carts,
pushing them in rows in the rain.

On our first date
you tied a leaky balloon to my wrist
to follow my route above the aisles.

And while your greasy, bespectacled boss
listened to customers' complaints about
rotten pears, lost receipts, expired coupons,

you found my bobbing balloon
and snuck me into the carpeted break room–
coffee-stained, fluorescent-lit dinginess.

All I could think about was my wagon
full of groceries, abandoned in the store.
But then you whispered, dimpled,

that this was what made work worthwhile,
and I thought of nothing but your honey lips
and arms that fit me like a worn sweater.

In the minutes it took my blue balloon
to drain its helium and graze the ground,
wrinkled and stretch-marked and fetal-curled,

we strolled the aisles and ate free dragon cookies,
arguing creamy vs. crunchy, fresh vs. frozen.
Our fingers pointed to the makings of our favorite meals.

You re-donned your cherry apron
and piled my cart with bags irrelevant,
while your boss remained as naive as I.

I am a face hidden by a camera lens,
mismatched earrings and an empty locket.
I am a memory curator, boxes
of cards, ticket stubs, pressed flowers.
I am a back-of-the-hand to-do list
and a corduroy jacket.

You are a sunrise and a 12-mile run,
sweaty feet and 3-day stubble.
You are dry eyes, even at funerals,
and a soft spot for golden retrievers.
You are a rusty blue Chevy
that you’ll fix up one day.

We are hands lingering after saying Grace.
We are “I’ll get this, you get that,
and we’ll split them.”
We are Alanis Morissette in the rain,
and a view of the fading day
from the rail of Boylan Bridge.

2 Chronicles 29:5*

We’ve become more concerned
with the tattoos on the temple
than the people rotting under its beams,
who sit beneath a stained-glass microscope,
craving nature and quick-fix saviors,
prayers humming against the walls
in the absence of truth.

We sluice ourselves with greed
and strip the faith down to a code:
some words of hate and violent virtue
trimming the ancient slates,
pasted over the commands to love one another.

Only those who have gotten it all right
can read this new law.

And the rest sit in darkness,
having blinded themselves by too closely inspecting
the brightest redemption filth
we could speak into existence.

Drying grasses climb the hillsides,
dotted with fall’s hues: saffron, lavender, rust.
Below lies an orchard--trees holding York Imperials,
ripe for the picking.

Branches meander, intertwine, and cross.
Some bow low to extend their offerings;
others strain to hide a Golden Delicious
overhead, out of reach.

The trees’ leaves darken, harden, and curl.
Feet fall upon those that have
drifted to the ground; the crunch
mimics the apple’s crisp bite.

The Rome Beauties are dimpled and pock-marked,
their surfaces spotlit by the sun.
Fist-sized with sloping sides
and bobbing heads--dangling, waiting.

Aside from the worm-claimed and the decayed,
the pick is yours.

We parked at the service route junction
just beyond midnight, headlights cut,
pretending we didn’t notice
the clock approaching curfew
on my last night in town.

Through the sunroof,
the stars looked like a dull reflection
of the tree-framed skyline.
We stared out in silence, our January breath
clouding the windshield.

You were the first to move:
your hand smacked the radio
to silence Third Eye Blind’s
“How’s It Going to Be,”
but it was too late.

The strumming autoharp and refrains of
“you don’t know me anymore”
had already filled the car with longing
for a love we hadn’t lost yet.

Lua was a woman of few words
and fewer teeth. She awoke
to a scraping sound and hushed snickers:
two boys in ball caps
sliding the coins that collected
on her bench each night
into their pockets,
trying not to wake Loony Lua.
Her right eye peeked open and the
boys scrambled, sending nearby pigeons
into flight. She never chased the kids,
didn’t mind the quarters lost
so much as the nickname.

She braced her wind-thin frame against
her cart that always pulled left,
and plugged her headphones into
her prized AM/FM radio–
missing its batteries for years,
but that never stopped the music for her.

The street filled with umbrellas as Lua
made her way through town.
Paul McCartney’s voice drew her to a stop
outside a restaurant. She peeked inside:
“What station you got playin out on the patio?”
The hostess’ perma-smile wavered
as she pointed to a jeering Customers Only
next to the door. “C’mon miss, I just wanna
listen on my radio.” The woman sighed,
walked behind the bar to read the station.
Lua turned a **** with her thumb,
adjusting for static,
and returned through the drizzle
to her bench in Sheridan Park.

She tilted her head back
and inhaled deeply, thinking how that rush
of rainy salt air made her feel like a fish–
breathing in the ocean
without worry of drowning.
Lua turned the volume up,
and watched the clouds sway with the music,
humming to herself
*it’s gonna be a great day, ooh.

I’m in a folding chair in the basement
of Forest Hills United Church,
nursing a styrofoam cup of coffee.
We’re all here hoping to find some inspiration
in someone’s else’s version of the 12-step story:
“I’m Rob and I’m an alcoholic.”
Hey Rob.

There’s the downward spiral:
one drink that always leads to six more,
*****-soaked nights, fetal-curled in alleys.
Velleities of sobriety.

Stealing grandma’s bunco winnings,
laughing at your girlfriend’s abortion,
DUIing your way into a kid and his dog,
sweaty shakes in a hospital bed.

And then the first meeting, a white chip,
a higher power, a sponsor.
You finally make it to one of your daughter’s
ballet recitals– the first in seven years.

And now it’s black chips and clean blood.
Reverent mornings on your knees,
and evenings in this basement.
Thanks for sharing Rob.

We file outside: inhale, exhale.
Floating blazes glow and fade in steady rhythm.
Heels grind ashy tobacco into asphalt
and we return to hear the next monologue,
leaving behind us our smoke
that whorls and wends
into a single plume.

You make my heart
           feel like a sunfish–
                      hungry, propulsive
        as it chases a worm
             it doesn’t realize
      is already
dead.

I am fetal curled, alone
in this too-big bed,
my mind wandering into
the museum of that morning:

The sunrise peeked through the blinds
light hop-scotching across
the freckles on your shoulder blades
and I wanted you to wake up
but didn’t want to wake you
hoped the bouncing beams
would warm you to life

You slept soundly
so I just lied there, memorizing
the pattern of your beard
the shape of your ear
the curve of your lips

And now on this morning
I stare out my window, knowing
you are some five thousand miles away
but we still sleep beneath the same blanket
of sky