Running for Cover

Green umbrellas
graze snap dragons and petunias
just passing under the eaves of this shower.

Don’t lecture us on the virtues of water
falling day after day until we are weary
of traveling to the well.
We are flooded with gratitude
for the luxurious green of our dreaming—
held boldly against the great grey
that haunts all our waking
like the common chores
of any servant tasked to survive.

We do not worry about thirst
or other suffering here.
The body is saturated,
if not satisfied,
by this over flowing
of the gods and the cumulous clouds
concealing the heavens
somewhere above.

Open the ribs of this shelter
and protect us from the deluge
while we walk timidly and pray
for the light and relief to arrive
abruptly as the flash of cracking thunder
on her hurried way home—
running for any kind of cover.

What The Body Knows Before Thought

This poem.
This lump in my throat.
This love that has nowhere to go
trickles through the cracks of walls
thick with moss
along corridors and forgotten paths--
between the sweating
cold granite of pain.

I wander here
lost in syllables
and the tone of voice
owned by disappointment,
disagreement, and the purple hood
of shame.

What can these words say out loud
that haven’t been repeated
in the creases of the brain
and in so many other poems
like me?

It does no good to think
when the muscles that run
from skull to hip
ache with knowledge
that does not yield to rationalization
or even the romantic notion
of survival.

Breathe into the cadence of this war
slipped like a sliver under the skin of the page
and the rhythm will draw out the infection
and the fever heat of truth. . .
the illness trapped in the blood,
the script to be read at the funeral.

Light Torn in the Night Sky

I’ve started to worry
in the hours that blur
from one to another
after midnight and before
the birds at dawn.

Not my style to disrupt sleep over nothing,
but somehow I have a contract with the silence
to stand guard and wait for the announcement of morning
or the blinking out of the light torn in the night sky.

It doesn’t seem to matter
that my mind is quiet
and not particularly urgent
to talk

but my skin
has begun to sing
loudly to a lover
who will have me
no longer
and I am not embarrassed
to admit I don’t mind staying behind
to watch her find her way
to that country she has not visited
in years.

The inland sea is so beautiful here.
The fault lines rumble gently in the distance
like a train heading north.

Perhaps if I am patient
I might even see her smile
or watch her rest her eyes in the pleasure
of slumber after sunrise.

Thinking of You as I Weed Between the Peas and Beans

My fingers sink into the earth
like the beaks of hungry birds
plunging after the smooth sound
of worms escaping at midnight.

The peas curl their green tendrils around bamboo stakes
and the beans multiply their leaves by twos each day the sun returns
to remind them they are loved.

I touch them too—
gentle as I pull the undesirable distractions
that remove my resolve from between these new shoots
and instead must encourage the universe to expand to feed us like we are beggars—
our bowls empty as we pray for any small scraps that will fill us
with the light of the stars and the vibrations that pass between the cells
of every living being.

My belly longs for August
and the harvest that is promised me
if I focus on these small wonders,
breathe for these potent dreams
until they emerge strong
and ready to flower--
until they offer their fruit
abundant and full of summer and grace.

Until that warm time
I must be patient and content in my solitary place
near the satisfaction of dirt
and life in my hands.

At Dawn

Early morning light
be gentle as you touch my face,
wake me with a whisper
like a lover who dares not disturb
the peace of the night.

The night has been harsh
and peace was not present
in the breath that entered
that dark place
between the moon and her stars.

If only the moon could protect me
in the fullness of her gentle face
and the stars could whisper the way to freedom
I would make my path with no fear
to morning.

Lover be gentle light as you make your way
to touch my face.
Wake the freedom of love with no fear
with a whisper of peace in the night.
Your breath calls the moon and stars to bless us.

Sweat

A pool of perspiration
gathers, glistens
on the skin of your bare chest
until it overflows like tears
and slides down the dark paths
inscribed under the surface
in order to remember
what must not be forgotten.

It is nearly the time of Solstice
and the sun that marks the passage
of another season and your favor.
Your patience is gone
with the heat of this long journey
around a lifetime of loving
what is impossible to love.

Little blisters bubble
in the cells of your ring finger.
They talk to each other
like giggling school girls
passing rumors of lost love
through the passages
of the day.
A small and tender heart emerges,
beaten from this skin
as if by magic,
but you know the pain
of the choker chain
that reminds you
of your vows to that suffering.

There’s no use pretending
the spirit will ever get something it can’t have
when you’ve marked yourself
in the blood you can’t wash away--
even after the scab has hardened
and the scar is the only remaining mark.

Back at your damp flesh
your mind is brought up short
by that harsh master
and his short leash.

A cloud passes overhead
and you feel the chill
of the opportunity not taken—
of fear of this unknown.
Regret is the ghost that haunts you
like a melanoma waiting to surface.

June

Have you noticed June
has come to us too soon
in a year where fireflies freeze
and are lightning for daisies
in a field I will never walk?

I catch you peeking through my window tonight
like a common boy who wants to see lace
touch soft skin and watch a lonely woman
remove private garments like layers of defense
until she is a vulnerable girl
ready to cry—sob in your arms.

You have no idea how to comfort me—
I am too much light for you to catch
in your hands.
I am stars and all water
leaking through your panicked fingers--
lost to the wide salty ocean and darkening sky.

Oh love,
if you only knew enough
to bring a simple child’s bucket
to the places where I always escape
you would capture your heart
full of abandoned, glittering treasure.

Instead, I must forgive you again for your fear
and your inability to turn away. . . .avert your eyes
from the naked beauty of truth
and the happiness that has come
to cover the outline
of my body.

I gather armfuls of white petals
and place them gently on your threshold
before dawn daring you to do the right thing
and kiss me. . . .abandon your post
at the door of everything proper
and enter into the circle of gold and spirit—
forget where the end of hello begins
and remember farewell is vocabulary
in a dialect we never knew.