no way but into you

a tide that opposes another or
other tides
causing a violent disturbance
in the sea

no way but into you
to build a rehab
in the deep deep water
of such a disturbance
stop pulling weeds
stop

let me do that
let it happen
let me go

a story embodied in a small tiger
cat with black lines falling out
of her eyes

abandonned 
discovered 
fed 
watched 
relocated 
sung to
lionized
saint meowshaun

uncovering a boring bird

I look out the window in
my mother's house and
see a brown bird with
a red head and proud red
breast

Smaller than a Robin
indeed, not a Robin

If I were my mother
(which I am, and I am not)
I would investigate

binoculars, dog-eared bird book
kept under the kitchen counter

I would check-mark
the picture of the bird,
satisfied with seeing it again

I am not
(and I am) my mother,
so instead I pick up a pen
and  book,
smaller than I prefer, to write in

I am interrupted
(and  again) and
the poem looses steam

I resist the urge to change this and
instead I stare at the bird

Think about catching it and
kissing it's red breast,
red head

wondering
how many other women
have done the same.

Things

he left a fancy thing
expensive thing
resting on the bookshelf
shining white and clean
atop thirty years of dust

and bodies passed through that room
each hour, a new batch
then more
other shiny, expensive, fancy things
left on that same spot
often forgot

a boy found the thing and knew it’s value
but without hesitation the boy turned it in
to the teacher
not sure he could trust the teacher
to hold the shiny, expensive, fancy thing safe

and moments after he ran into the room
back to the spot on the bookshelf
now bare
his heart in his throat

until the boy told him
the teacher has your shiny, expensive, fancy thing
and the relief sank to his feet
as he hugged the boy
and the teacher smiled with hope

REAL PLACE

The Cadillac of heating pads.

The violent Irish gangster show.

Do the dishes with one earbud in, 

confess how scared you get –

not of the water but

the rubbish it takes on,

the animals, so casual

how the neighborhood works like

a mood ring,

cold blue heart homage, 

nameless woman doing squats

at all the stop signs.

To birth a being

To birth a being
It takes something
I don't know
But I did know then
A shape
Conjuring
A scarf of a wail
pulled forth from my throat
Easy easy now
But holding back isn't
The stiches looped
Will melt back in
But that being --
He's on the outside now,
Waxy, purple-ish,
And soon untethered

Marking Time

I pull tarot cards and read a poem from this day
Four years ago. Marking time is a habit. Mapping
This life out for the part of me who is scared of forgetting.

Whenever I’m anxious I dream of screaming. I feel
My voice hoarsen as words claw their way out.
My whole body is a scream and no one listens.
I get louder and my throat gets raw and I wake up
Thick tongued.

Four months after this four year old poem,
I met the woman who is now in the next room
On the phone with the bank, while our baby sleeps
On the bed next to me and a pile of unfolded laundry. He stirs,
Sucks his fingers, sighs. My heart outside my body.

I am lonely but full of love. The window behind me
Is drafty and through its gaps I can hear the rain and birdsong.
Last night the moon was yellow and huge. My mother sends me photos
Of the sunrise from the hospital where she works. My father
Texts about his apartment flooding. The heart emoji is often
My response, these days.

Structural Boredom

In bed, with a sick bucket made out of a cardboard box lined with a plaggy bag,
I watched Scott freeze to death in a tent.

He died, at peace with the world.

It's got to be a true horror, freezing to death, but Scott bored himself into action, for years, and thought he went to heaven, ultimately.

Let's not ruin the impulse by reaction.
You got bored to higher feats and then you died and went to heaven so we don't need the present "and then what" as if it's a magnet smear across a screen.

And then what and then what.

If you're bored you're bored and we'd all find more ways to be bored,
if it weren't for your sport.

Terrible shepherds

We were terrible Shepherds sweatered up booted shouting we hissed and stomped and laughed and swore and 100 head of sheep turned tail and flocked all the way home without us
The next day we climbed Mount Parnassus and looked for the oracles cave there was a field there dugout like a pit stonewalls for spectators to peer down from
Ground thick with wet grass and dew
you and me lilah we raced on foot heart pounding wind whipping

I forget who won
I forget if there was a Theatre there or where was the Oracle anyway
And did we play backgammon with a cute Greek boy on the mountaintop or did we eat lentils
Is the word for lentils in Greek really fuck yes
And do I remember correctly that you picked at your food and that our host gave us blue beads that had belonged to his wife and we taught him to read his Tarot cards
And did you really read me The Little Prince  every night before we fell asleep
Did we walk up the mountain or walk down
Or did some good shepherd give us a ride home?

Blues

Blue is to the green algae skimming over a lake as

a mother’s fingernails are to her garden’s soil,

Blue is to green algae as

the fish in her koi pond

are to winter ice on top–

They’re all either dead or gone

or huddled at the bottom, close

to the muck and barely moving.

Blue is to the algae

as her receding gums are to the bony teeth

lingering, still visible much further down

in her mouth than should be.

A second, hidden object

underneath the surface

showing through in fits and shimmers only.

Half moon crescents, tail fin flecks

and scales and flips and flashes.

Blue is to asphalt as

a yellow moon is to

the cracked pavement below.