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Saturday, July 18, 2020

Daughter

My nightmares are of him, the wrathful father
I used to fear I’d grow to be like him
A petty, ugly, bulging vein of anger
My nightmares were I’d be a wrathful daughter
but it is him, all him, and I am gentle
I grow more gentle and he grows more dim
My nightmares were of him, the wrathful father
I used to fear I’d grow to be like him.

2015

The Hourglass


The hourglass that bulges at the middle
      I seem to see it everywhere I go
                                      the last bite of an apple will reveal it
                                    two cones, a sphere, a lozenge or a bow
                                      And cutting figures into railroad board
                                      to make Glengarry caps for kids to wear
                                    next week at Scottish Fest, my scissors snip
                                  and in the scraps that fall, the shape is there.
                                    At dinner with a group I don’t know well
                                      I clench my paper napkin and I twist
                                          it anxiously beneath the tabletop
                                      and after, find the hourglass in my fist.
                                What’s in the middle part that makes it bulge,
                                        my refuse swelling with significance?
                            Which I would loose, my hoarding thoughts intake:
                                  a pregnant glass whose water will not break.



2015

Villanelle

I'm not sure how I am supposed to help her.
Does “doing nothing” mean the same as “kill”?
How should I know? Am I my sister's keeper?

I left for school and now I rarely see her.
I’m still the only one she trusts to tell.
I’m not sure how I am supposed to help her.

If she sinks into medicated slumber,
am I at fault in every bitter pill?
How should I know? Am I my sister’s keeper?

I'm not a mother, therapist or doctor;
I don't know how to make a person well.
I’m not sure how I am supposed to help her.

I couldn't save Jess from the ER either,
I didn't even know that she was ill.
But knowing now, am I my sister’s keeper?

What if Cain didn’t raise his hand to murder
but quietly stood and watched as Abel fell?
I’m not sure how I am supposed to help her.
How should I know? Am I my sister’s keeper?

Villanelle



They toiled all the night.
They did what they could do.
Your smile isn’t right.

Beneath the panicked light
you seemed red white and blue.
They toiled all the night

Eventually you’ll bite
just fine, they say, and chew.
Your smile isn’t right.

There is a strange delight
in forming someone new.
They toiled all the night.

You say, a detail’s trite
I say, they fudged a few:
Your smile isn’t right.

Almost, but not quite,
what did they put askew?
They toiled all the night,
but your smile isn’t right.


2012

Death of the Lavender Fields

Hill Country, Texas, in the summer drought:
Blue-purple pill-like petals dried or greyed
except in rare, spare areas of shade
where others seeking shade are driven out
by lashes of mesquite, arboreal knout.
Beneath the sun’s unsparing chereb-blade
rich colors, lavender corollas, fade
and hillocks bulge and redden as with gout.
Provence, who with its lavish plumes would flout,
repents the perfumed excess of its clade
and wishes prayers for sun had gone unprayed
and burns ecstatic in a dearth of doubt.

Even if rain could come—and well it may—
the fields have crusted with a lacquered shell
to keep the most torrential rain at bay.
And hot and choking folds of dust-wind swell,
bend, coil, and shimmer dully like a snake
where dormant desert impulses awake.




2015

Meditation


today I give thanks
that I am butter-fingered--

that I don’t need to
what I cannot do--

hold anything
inside forever, or find

the answer-- what’s
hoarded in the heart’s

fist threatens
to destroy -- even truth,

even love and friends--
so I give thanks for a heart

whose grip’s so weak--
for a world so slippery--

that I am porous
with a mind of mesh,

not marble--and that ends,
not means, evade me--

that my essence is
to breathe, and not

despite my readiness
of hand, to grasp

what’s only passing,
or to understand--



2017

Past Disaster

At midday, drifting
through a barren lot
I stumbled on a static
solar system: rings

of stones. No, rubble,
rough and loveless,
I discovered--
asphalt, concrete, trash.

But flung together
from some past
disaster, they 
petaled open

like a peony
with crabgrass pacing
a labyrinth’s paths
between the clutter.

I’d been passing
through with nothing
on my mind but troubles
and this reminded me

it’s not important
to remember nothing
matters. Detritus,
razed spaces,

these muster miracles
that sense and order
never could have
put together.

2017