When you ask of me, why poetry
I'm not sure you understand
That it's the center of my universe
The very depth of who I am

The molecules in the air I breath
Oxygen pulsing through the veins
The storm brewing beneath the surface
The pounding of the rain

It's the timeless anticipation
Of the thought that's yet to come
The tearing open of life's seam
The beating of the drum

The first peak of the desert flower
When it feels the gentle touch of spring
The smile in the eyes of a child
And all the joy it brings

The in and out of the tide
In the pulling of the waves
When you ask of me, why poetry
What more is there to say

The battle begins in the dark.
With a stabbing inhale you rip me open.
Tear me from sleep--heart pounding,
     we wrestle in a distant corner of the bed.
             Wake no one,
                                say nothing;
                                              it's not his problem.

I know every trick in your book:
the immobilizing grip, poisoned gut wrenching fear,
the way you force my eyes open, pushing back fitful dreams.
                                  
                      ­            Yes, I know your tricks, but knowing hasn't helped me yet.

I can drown you with a bottle in the night,
               but your back before the dawn, gnawing my insides.
Should I starve you of sleep,
               your joint locks force and turn the choice against me.

After so long the war has become intimate--familiar and rhythmic--
                                                      ­                            our private, frenzied dance
                             ragged breath and fevered steps memorized
                             culminate in a flawless performance.

In this state I begin to imagine that I wanted it this way.
What would my life be without so practiced, so relentless a partner?

climbing this path, i am still.
pausing to seek breathing slows,
wings unfurl as burdens drop
and here is Truth calling my name.

pulled into the arms of the Lover of my soul
the fear and fighting begin to ebb.
whisper to me the who of my being;
remove from my side the thorn of when.

open my eyes to the quiet retreat of darkness,
my heart and my hands to a new embrace:
family begotten of trials, tears and wounds
bound up by outstretched arms and words of grace.

though the moment be fleeting soft and bright
or longstanding steadfast with a quiet glow,
i know as i trip barefoot down
this is true Home where i shall return.

some mornings
even my hair
seems to behave,
when i don't need
it to -- like weather
or feelings.
                         after
today, i was content.
i finally got my bed
just the way i like it,
settled in, surrounded
by cush, and plush and
(dead insects)
                            despite
    a growing discomfort
in my belly, i'm still fine;
saltine remedy, mint tea
                              potion.
a lovely girl asked                
me to catch dreams for her.
of course i will, in jars like
fireflies, natural lanterns
to light up your
imagination.
                             but the
          aching in my belly
    seems intent on staying
until addressed appropriately--
sneakily
                creeping up on me
like adolescent shenanigans--
acknowledgement is
reminiscence, the kind you
don't fancy at 1:00 am.
so i mulled it over,
going home; like
a kick in the shins,
it made me realize
that the little place
in me, maybe a vein
or vesicle, is still
missing.
               it used to
be an *****, a limb;
in months it shrank to
an extremity, a digit,
finally infinitesimal--
but still
missing.
     (now) i'm having trouble
                making my peace
with the fact that you'll have
that artery, or capillary,
or soul atom for awhile
or forever, maybe.
but i think, i posit
in fact, perhaps
by march, a few
months more,
i'll forget and
be able to say
*"it's yours."

Know your water from your air,
The batted lashes from that gorgeous hair
Believe in those words & the way they fall
Trust the posture, don’t misread the sprawl

I'd like to think that Adam
would rake his fingers through Eve's hair.
Like a comb.
I'd like to think she would rest her shoulder,
his smile as infectious as her laugh,
against him as he brushed the day from her hair.

I'd like to think that Penelope,
brushing  her fingers on the nape of his neck,
would cradle Odysseus while he cried;
In the bed he had made,
but they shared.

I want to believe that, had things
gone another way, Romeo would
welcome Juliet home each day,
as the sea welcomes her storms.

I need to know that love
makes equals of us all.
That life grows inward
as well as outward
when two souls touch.

What are we?
If not two people engaged in
this single life we have made?
I don't know my way, my love.
I am lost
without your hand
gently squeezing my own.