"bassinette" poems
on a plastic bench
from left to right
there’s him and you, then me
his head aches
because of too much liquor
it’s a fault of self control
his pulsing temples
heavy eyelids
your feet ache
you danced too much
you always dance too much
with the wrong shoes on
toes crushing each other
my face hurts
you said I smiled too much
at strangers whose names I don’t remember
strangers at the party
on the street
on this train
the electric hum sings us to sleep
gently gently
feel the rock of the car
softly softly
we’re babies in a metal bassinette
and like a mother kisses her baby
I want to kiss you
on your forehead
and hold your hand
rest that sleepy head on my shoulder
I’ll take you home
and tuck you in
leave water by your bedside
I think he wants to kiss me
not like a mother and a baby
not like a friend
but with soft lips
and warm togues
hand in hair
I’d let him kiss me
but not now
it’s our stop and i’ve got to make sure you get to bed safely
don’t slip on the pavement
remember to wash your face
it’s okay
he’s got my number
but he won’t want to kiss me in the morning
with the sun up and the birds chirping
when there’s coffee to buy and newspapers to read
I am letting this slip away
I’m fine
this isn’t his stop
we can’t transfer here
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Some squawking and stacatto squeeling a retched
Cry and there you are.
Small bundle covered in a heated bassinette.
The race is on.
One more sent down from central casting.
Two eyes one nose. Two ears two hands and feet. If all is a go.
Make your. Mark son.
Girl interrupted.
Blue as a berry. 6 weeks early.
Premature delivery
Could not be more girly.
My son. My daughter
Two more limbs on the tree.
Up the beanstalk you will climb
To see what you can see.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
~
for years innumerable
this generational mystery persisted
even when the heat radiated down
and not a shadow would pass
the slightest rumbles
not the rumbles of a drifting shelf
or the slipping of a plate far away
but something similarly natural
and soothing
cozy and nestled in a cradle
kits slept against grey skin
edges softened and worn
offering the perfect bassinette
to another family of foxes
a strong wind tipped a tree
crumbling mountain found a canyon below
the snows came and ice stretched deep
separating basalt and sedimentary
I felt myself falling apart
It was after this harshest of winters
I began to notice different sounds...
the constant steady clicking
of a raven cracking filberts
upon my exposed bones
the trickling of a nearby stream
carrying away pieces of my body
rolling them smooth
sending them to lands
I would never see
and the foxes
each early spring and late summer
they would return to my womb
bring forth new life
from the belly of a stone
I have lost count….
how many babies have I held
how many soft toes have explored my veins
how many light yips from the depths
have lulled me to sleep
when strong winds blow
and the trees begin to lean /
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC