Five Years Gone
Seasonal
she laughs at me and says
I’m not a local
until I bitch about the cold.
it’s cold enough for a jacket
and rainy, and I can see
my breath in the dead of night.
this is a desert winter,
with green sprouts outgrowing
carefully groomed hedges.
spring’s wet smell,
autumn’s bite, an excuse
to wear my favorite gloves.
every season but summer
sneaks in at once
while the heat naps.
tangerines hang heavy
above my umbrella,
lights between the fruit.
tinsel deer paw at
stone lawns and plastic
snowmen never melt.
on Christmas I’ll sit
outside and call my family
and tell them how warm it is
without snow to shovel,
without ice to tread on,
and how the season sneaks
up on me while my brain
tells me it’s still
October. the holiday
smacks me upside
my head, leaves me dazed
moves on toward summer
Dust on Dreams
the apartment is small
and sparsely furnished
with all the dreams a young
woman’s first set of keys
can muster, plus a few chairs
from a garage sale, a sidewalk
coffee table, twenty five years
of books and sketches, toys, plans.
the painting on the easel
is half-finished, and a
thin layer of dust has gathered
on the dry paint. the canvas
is purple and blue, hope and
the sky, slashed with red
that is still wet.
she was waiting for the right time
for her housewarming party,
until she had seats, until she had
decorations, until all her friends
could make it, but her first guest
was uninvited and the crowd
here now is not enjoying
themselves. there will still be
lots of cleaning up to do
later.
Wink
She wears cardboard wings,
carefully shaped and kept dry.
They are perfect for swooping
over amber fields, golden flowers.
The land is far more wild
than she is, blades of grass
cutting deep and drawing
blood stark against the saffron
earth. She only flies,
watching with tawny eyes
the travelers below
and the art they make
as they dye the color of the west.
And Next the Leather
I don’t usually say this
to a girl on a first date
but would you please
kick me in the face again?
That was hot.
A Fairy Story
once upon a time
a prince fell in love with a
stable-boy’s keen smile
like the sun, it made him bloom
and spring led to wanderlust
Another Poem About Moving
one
last
empty
goodbye tear
at the airport curb
but I won’t leave the car for you
get out already and carry your own damn luggage.
New
too quiet and too drunk
clear night, distant fireworks
aw hell, is that dawn?
(I’m not lonely, just alone;
cold, damp, stained but not lonely)
Stains
blossoming cherry-
red in the water, spreading
like thick summer heat
wine spilled on silk will never
come out, like your words, your blade
Blackbeard’s Closet
I woke up bloody,
not bleeding, just guilty,
polka-dotted with damn spots
and stains on the bed.
These bad break-ups
are going to be the death of me.
I stripped the bed
and put her in the closet.
It’s getting crowded in there,
too many skeletons;
I’d better be careful,
they might push me out.
I considered a trip to Ikea
after I cleaned up,
to pick up some storage boxes
I could use for photos and ashes,
something to make
the closet fit again,
and fresh sheets
to replace the stains I can’t get out.
Buds
A forest of children
little girls in dresses,
boys in sailor suits
Sunday best,
hanging from above me.
The trees are blurred,
impressionist spots.
Only the forest of
pink and powder blue and lavender is clear.
“Well, come on,” I say
in my best
kindergarten teacher voice,
“everyone grab the rope
and we’ll get going.”
I turn away from them,
grabbing the end of the rope,
and looping the noose
over my wrist.
Behind me I hear a rustle
of leaves and ribbons, a giggle.
Then the rope pulls taut
and I start walking.
The Eventual Heat Death of the Universe
a big bang he didn’t hear
numbed reactions even before
pain demanded his attention
flesh gone supernova
the milky way the blood pooled
against denim, warming his skin
fading to a chill
stars flashed and went out
as entropy took over
Crazy Quilt
Childhood’s a patchwork
of soft squares, patterns on my bed.
I’m pulling them all out, one for each year
until you couldn’t keep the lines
straight anymore. They’re much too hot,
even for December .
I’m staring at the tile floor, trying not to
breathe too deeply, counting the squares
in the cold patchwork
that runs from the nurses’ station
to the back doors locked in case you try to leave.
Even that simple pattern seems to confuse you now.
Maybe it’s a blessing that
it never gets old for you,
always a new pattern laid while you sleep.
You have so few left.
You call me after your children
and then your siblings.
You’re suffering, but I’m selfish
and I know the only pattern
of yours I fit into
is the one left on my bed.
Easter
Dad hustling us out the door
on Easter morning, grumbling
about our clothes or our attitudes
or the fact that I was still
eating chocolate eggs for breakfast
and my sister hadn’t been to bed.
We all hated it, and even he had
no illusions about why we went.
I fidgeted and complained under
my breath, the smell of incense
making it hard to breathe.
Without him, I make elaborate
plans to sleep in, crack vampire
jokes, and end up awake at dawn
anyway, getting dressed, and
bitching the ent
ire time.
Long Distance Bills
I wake up with
dry mouth, thick with worry
and I’m not sure
why until I notice
the red x next to
the date on the calendar.
I’m too far
away to do anything
but wait,
count time zones,
and try to pray.
Step On a Crack
Counting my steps as I walk
home in the dark, spacing my feet
just so and making the occasional
desperate leap just to make sure.
Watch those cracks, Mom has
enough to worry about without
the ice that keeps me calm breaking
up and melting to tears again.
Cracks in the cheap bathroom tile
and blood on my knuckles, don’t step
on the shards, don’t wonder
if my body betrays me too.
Fooling
I don’t know who you think you’re fooling
with a medicine cabinet full of serpents and your wife
filling little orange bottles with their poison,
like the doctor can write a prescription for forgiveness and
I have to hand it over the counter like candy.
Since you insist, I’ll concede that we are more
alike than I ever wanted, in myself I see you
scrubbing the kitchen until I can’t stand the bleach fumes,
raking the forest floor outside the house. I feel the panic
that sears across my face and chest, that
holds me prisoner against the rock as I thrash.
You kept me captive to your obsessive fears
until I was old enough to develop my own,
then wondered what fairies had stolen your
child away. Don’t wonder. You were the one
who called the Goblin King, who yelled until
I locked my door, who handed me off to doctors
and grabbed me back when they asked questions.
My world is long-broken. I check and double
check, the superglue that keeps me together.
You keep your wife up, leaving her to stand with
her cup, to catch your poison. I try to burn
in silence, never willing to follow your example.
Just Visiting
A mother asks if you can go home again
as she and her son pull out of the driveway,
bound for the airport. She hates seeing him
off, but loves seeing him. She thinks of
his birth, surgery, the pain he’s worth
as she says goodbye again at the airport,
following along the other side
of the security barrier until she has to
give him over to metal detectors.
She’s back in the parking lot, alone,
pulling out into the still, chill summer morning
before she realizes he never answered.
Wild Things
leaning a little too close
a little too fast with the knife
never quite sure
how much is too much
do I believe Hollywood authorities
with pills to wake you up,
keep you skinny or sane
do I trust myself
I walk under the bridge
like water, forgiven
not forgetting the rust-red
overflowing storm drains
Scrapbooking
bare feet, cold rock
straining eyes against
construction paper shapes
a sprinkle of glitter above
strands of spider web
catch me, glue me back
as I try to capture
a minute, any minute
permanently