Missing You Like a Woman Misses Her House
When She’s Been Away Too Long

Love,
I miss you
like a woman misses her house
when she has been away
too long.

I see the bright sun
in my kitchen and want
to light the fire
in the hearth,
cook with butter,
onions,
and fragrant spices
to fill myself up
with the thought
of coming home
to you.

It is time to wash
the sheets and hang
the comforter out in the wind
while I sweep and mop
the floors,
polish the windows,
and water the thirsty plants.

I can feel my fingers
deep in the dirt outside
in my flower beds
as I make way
for the roots
of coral colored petals
and the promise of
the nodding bonnets
of dragon lilies.

Let me brush the cobwebs
from the tendrils at my neck
and dust my skin and lips
with soothing ointments.

The door is unlocked.

The candles are lit.

The table is set
for a small, quiet supper
of longing.

Mardi Gras

Bitter coffee makes me think
of my mother’s Folgers—
the ground sticks and leaves blended
with careless beans
in the silver percolator
slurping in the early morning
before the day shift
at the hospital
or after a long night
holding the hands
of someone about to die.
We are all terrified
of that bitter drink.

But I am not afraid to swallow
white wine for the last time
or to give up the rotting cream
and sugar that coats my hungry tongue
at midnight, hours after my last cup of tea.

Tonight I will give up everything
for thousands of drops of water
meant to cleanse the corners of my soul.

Jesus did it—
a simple man of faith
gave his body
to the anointing of water
and the scented oils of redemption.

Why can’t I?

H2O is the formula, after all,
that will clear my mind of attachment
to the up and down of this childish see-saw
Marjorie Dawe—
the night terrors
where I can’t wait
to suffer.

In the dream tonight, alone in my bed,
I spin in no red gown.
Here in sleep I am more than ever
the Mardi Gras Queen
and will soon slumber
in my feathered mask
until the middle of April
or maybe for the rest of my life.

Today, on Fat Tuesday,
I can’t resist taking out
all my yard sale garbage,
displaying it carefully
in hope that someone will buy it—
cart away the kitch—
so I won’t have to burn it tomorrow
to make the ash I must smudge
on my face—
mark my memory
wtth the sign that reads
“Nothing lasts.”

I’ll hold my palms up
for the host tomorrow morning,
my fingers laced and prayerful,
expecting miracles
and finding only dust
on my lips
as I leave my words
and my sins
to rest.

The Hard Season
--on turning 44

February can be hard
when you live in a cold place—
a northern place
where the softness of snow
falling at midnight can suddenly vanish
into crusted ice and the dangling teeth of icicles
that hang ready to shorten
your already numbered days.

This is the history of forgetting
I’ve been born into—
the belief system
that stares back at me in the mirror
marking more than 40 years
on my face.

Time and the tilting earth
will bring us around
to spring soon enough
where all my daffodils
will push up laughing
from such darkness
and in that time I will learn
again to ignore the lines on this skin
and remember the joy of bright skies
and yellow.

There are times now
when I trace the letters of my name
for luck and to call abundance to my voice.
I am a beggar no longer
where I have learned to sing
with the birds and the wind.

On this road
I know where I live
and can easily find my way
even when the moon is dark
and the clouds hide the path
I’ve known by the stars.

The twin of my true self
is here with me now
reminding me of the small comfort
of hope I carry in the red beaded bag of my heart.
Together we pass by the house of Loneliness
and make our way toward a single candle
in the window of the night.

This light
is the constant prayer
of the coming year.