The Size of a Fist

Pull the fingers
tightly into your palm
and form a boney fist
and you will see
the size and shape
of your heart
before your eyes.

Place this gathered hand
over your left breast,
simple and compact,
sturdy and ready to fight.
Throw a punch into the chest--
into of a lifetime of longing.

What gifts this small package carries
into the body each time she enters the door
blinded by human vision,
forgetting her native language,
the tough fibers
pounding the spirit
blood red—
a purple bruise
unrecognizable to her family
of lovers.

The sound is the distant thunder
of the rising storm.
The heat burns
at a constant temperature,
perfect for baking
and the gathering of delicate
yeasty flowers.
The power of endurance
is that of an African runner
making his barefooted way
across the desert.

But what treasure do we find there
balled into the corner of the ribs,
rocked by the breath,
day after long day?
What does this basket of a body
carry to the grave,
time after time daring to trust
the offering, once opened
is not lost
or empty, robbed by some unknown thief
in the dark of night,
but instead will be over flowing
with sweet honey
and jewels to be fitted
into the royal crown
of the priestess at the feast of infinity?

Here each mouth filled
with laughter—
each belly full of sweetness
and enough light
to burst open
all wisdom
and absolute beauty.

Arguing With Angels

Even as the sun opens the sky
to the brightest April blue
and brings light and warmth
to my winter weary bones,
I am arguing with angels
about happiness.

There are limits to everything it seems—
boundaries I never knew existed
in order to keep control
on laughter as it burns the ribs
and stretches each of a thousand muscles
of a face
or controlling hunger for garlic and oil
slathered over Turkish dumplings
with yogurt to smooth the edges of bitterness
and ancient rituals involving grapes and walnuts,
the earth herself added to the syrup at the end of cooking
for sweetness.

The creatures from heaven warn me
not to move too close to the edge of this love,
to stay back under cover
where I can protect myself,
hide from the truth that buzzes
like a mouth full of angry bees.

Ignore the pull of a wide-open heart
lest you drown in the rapid current
roaring on these banks like a locomotive
racing across the prairie in winter, no crossings
to stop the speeding iron force at midnight
under a crescent moon
and millions of burning stars.

Even with the counsel of these winged ones
I cannot help but tempt this fate.
Their fear will not dissuade me
from walking across the invisible lines
drawn as protective charms
against the unbearable burden
of too much love.


Even if I must drain every drop of blood from my veins
and fill these vessels with emptiness,
I will climb over this mystic mountain
of everything forbidden
to gaze into the face of God.

Spring Wind

The breezes blew strong this morning
and reminded my body of the swaying
place of discovery I miss as I place my hand
in your hand, near the pounding of your heart,
and I drop my defenses and forgive
myself for loving someone
I can’t love.

Why ask the question anymore--
to ask why love is ever wrong.
There is no answer to this question
when it is put to you and to me.
We are not at liberty to question
the chains wrapped around our hearts—
what gold and silver rings bind us.

The truth is no one has figured out
what blade will cut the slender red thread
that binds and tugs at the ribs
surrounding the place where blood
and life force pumps a river of compassion
toward the river of contentment
between you and me.

My curls battle this spring wind
crawling across my face
like vines climbing the walls
of an old New England house
empty of human understanding,
left alone to the ghosts,
lonely and breathing nothing
in the pale first light of another solitary day.