Evening Train

As I board another evening train toward grief
I have a confession to make.

I have begun to say farewell to this body
and to the paper men listed in my black bookof love,
like the log of endangered species
they might become
without my memory
or the chance of passion they found
curled inside of me—
the tendrils of my long hair
falling in the face of truth.

Tonight the bones of the earth
gleam in the fullness of moonlight
and I recognize the cool fire near this track,
my heart racing at the place in the throat
reserved for the holy communion
of looming loss.

I lean into the glass of this dark window
and will not deny the fear I find
in the face I see looking back.

After all, confession is all about fear.

The darkness of this place was meant to calm me
as I open my mouth to speak.
Instead, a lifetime of knowing rushes in,
humming like drones to a queen
and the healing silence launches into the skies.

I can feel these wings emerging white and strong,
sprouting from my shoulders, opening to victory.

Soon I will find the courage to open the door of morning
and take flight.
This view of heaven
just as clear as my breath.

Payment In Full

I should have known this was coming
the time I was told the story
about the grandparents on his father’s side
sleeping, each in their own twin bed,
lined up next to each other, alone
for as long as he could remember.

Perhaps that is why his father
is the selfish only child,
spoiled by lovers who slept
out of reach of even the cool fingers
of night after night
without embrace.

I don’t know how else to explain it to myself.

I tried once
to imagine the grandfather
approaching his momsel
with body on his mind,
stiff with the anticipation
of youthful pleasure.

In my mind,
she rolled toward the wall,
letting out a sigh that sent him away
to memories of Russia
or to the dark eyes and hair
of some other girl who might move over
or call him into her abundant breast
and strong arms,
long enough to come home
and find the comfort
of her gregarious flesh.

What sins are passed unforgiven to our children?

If tomorrow I walk into the vaults of compassion
and distribute riches to the most needy
what is to keep me tethered to this life?
Will I have to pay my debt to all those I’ve wronged
in order to set my children’s souls free?


If that is so,
you are the first on my list of debtors.
I want to make your payment in full, with interest,
and exact change.

I want to retire to my own sweet sheets
fresh with forgiveness,
washed clean of any residue of guilt.

I will dream,
communicating with all your ancestors,
let them know my children are finally free
to make their own mistakes
in love.

I will have unloaded their traveler’s packs
of any baggage
or heavy stones
of someone else’s journey,
and, like the late night movies I adore
in this sleeping space,
I will look you in the eye
and finally tell you
I’m gone.

Remembering How to Fly
for Joni Hullinghorst

On my darkest days I fear
that kind of oblivion,
fading from my mind each day
into a darkness that can’t hold the light
of even one day in view.

In that slow dawn toward nothingness
what would my sisterhood remember?

The touch of a child skin,
the crescendo of October,
the beads of sweat on the whispering
lips of a wide awake lover,
the milky smell of the ocean.

This hush of loss haunts me,
strips the flesh from my bones
leaving me picked clean of hope.

Who am I to call on the muse now,
scold her for not staying with us
in this garden ready for harvest?
How can I be angry she planted the seeds,
pulled witch weed from between the rows,
called down the rains from the highest clouds,
and even watched the blossoms into fullest color,
just to leave us here, alone with the unforbidden fruit?

Instead, I am left here with all the other dreamers,
waiting for our turn to forget
the pull of gravity
and remember how to fly.