Attachment

I have begun
to look into distances
as I approach the center
of a life colorfully decorated
with the united reminders
of decay.

It is natural—
a selected intelligence
that awakens just in time
to give away
all I know
in reverse order
of the gathering.

The stories of my brothers
and my invisible sisters
are alive in me
like fire and wicked wind
the suffering is caught in my breath
and fall like the inevitable avalanche
in my bones—
the sound deafening
within the silences.

And yet I am called to listen
to the dead and the forgotten.
I see their faces
and feel their hands upon my soul
when I know not what to do.
The comfort of the saints
and sages settles around
the same flame for light
in the unbearable darkness—
in the cold we will know
as the longest winter.

If kindness is my only possession
before spring arrives in the color
of tulips and daffodils,
let me have the wisdom
and the grace
to give it all away.

On that day
wash my face clean
and remember
that it is exactly
as I have told you
and the gift that I have plucked
from between my ribs
so that I might place hope
in the palm
of your hungry hand
is the only meal
you will ever desire
again.

Taken

Take me
by the hand
one more day,
one more mysterious day
where love and kindness
look me in the eye
longing to get lost inside
this body and in the light
that changes color at the edge
of white robes
bursting into gold.

Take me
as if it were the first time
you’d traced the lines of my face
with fingers trembling,
one more time the beginner
fumbling with fear
you might not gather the strength
to follow bliss offered with beauty
by the cycle of this lifetime.

Take me
as if it were the last time
you would kneel before me,
place your face in the dust
of my skin
and bless the moment
by inhaling.

Here is your temple.
Here is the warmth of the spirit
that brings you to the communion table
with all living things.
Here the Earth rises up
and shivers
at the base of the spine
and climbs the inevitable path
to the crown
you wear so well.

Take your seat.
Take your breath.
Take my hand
so that we might
join the family of souls
who await our arrival
and smile as we fly
freshly washed
and clean with laughter
in this final escape.

Sacrificing the Son

For Bill and his beloved Sam

Stand up tall,
chest out, voice strong
when you call the name of your son
home for the night.
This song of a father rings
long past the hour of reckoning.
You have made this call a million times
as the light leaves the sky
and twilight forces the eyes
to see the tiny remnants of far away
glimmers of a past
we can never know for sure.

The silence in your ears aches.

You know what is coming
with each howl into the pending dark—
know the pit in the core of consciousness—
that danger is right at the shoulder
of your son
whispering the loud
and raspy death call.

This is not a child’s game
of hide and seek
where anyone can play dead.
The stakes of being found
in the rocks and scrabbling bushes
are for keeps.

Flying on the wings
woven by looking fear in the face—
seeing the souls of the departed
like they are gathered friends—
gives you no comfort today.

The wide and healing ocean
is not big enough to wash you clean,
nor does it allow you to emerge
with the joy of knowing hope
in a future you cannot see.

Hold this impermanent boy
to your wide open heart one more time
and then cast him into the waters
like ashes—
the essence of who he is
will be all that this day allows you to love,
all that any day
will ever offer again.

Tendrils

Tendrils of the world
curl at my neck,
gently tightening their hold
like something beautiful
and green as morning glories
ready to burst into blossom
or explode into a fiery rage
with smoke twisting
into the cracks
of a door jam,
delighted to damage
the illusion of safety
with one mighty puff.

Inhale with hope or confidence
only to collapse as pink as a lung
on the death of letting go
unsure of where the next meal of pure air
might come from.

There is no mother touch
on my locks
after these cold rains.
No comb to separate tangles,
straightening the mess
into neat rows
so that I might transform overnight
into the beautiful one
everyone wants.

Instead, I ache,
tossed about
and snarled,
ready to shave
the attachments off at the roots
and wait to see
what might grow back from the sharp stubble
when there is really nothing left
to lose—

The Belly Remembers

After the banging pain
of the secret language of the body,
after years of studying
other people’s neediness—
putting my own voice
often at the back of the line,

it occurs to me
that any normal heart,
even with delayed reactions
and stunted growth,
can become drunk
with light.

It might be like going to the punch bowl
too many times, fetching happiness
for someone else
and without even noticing
in the dancing through the crowds
of merrymakers and observing
other wiser women from the corners
where wallflowers bloom

I am not living in the house
where a slow death is certain,
but instead intoxicated with eyes open,
with the belly warm and full
and remembering
these tremors,
this convulsing quake
is unexpected joy,

laughter in remembering
exactly who I am.

Civil Twilight

At the blue hour,
at the union where night and day
have come together in exquisite love
to bow humbly
to the light that generates
at the edges of the ocean,

I have traveled
across the distances
of belief and healing
to witness the offerings
of bride to groom.

She washes his feet.
He gathers the gentle face
into his hands;
kisses eyes,
cheek,
and the full and pink
lips of the beloved

just before she bursts
into morning.

Bear Cave Dreaming

The fall nights
have begun to curl
around my body
in bear cave dreaming.

The thick fur and comfort of these skins
breathe softly at the back of my neck,
spooning into the small of my aching back,
washing away the drought and the heat of summer
with the slow, gentle rains
of unconditional love.

On flickering days like these
we absorb the nourishment
of moss and acorns,
pine and granite,
and the encouragement of geese
calling in the highest blue.

The days shorten as we turn again
into the constant change,
eclipsed unexpectedly by the rejection
of the sweet abundance of the sun,
heading south to be buried
deep inside the earth.

It is no wonder
the heat of our awake
and glowing fires
have come to the stone womb
in order to gather the necessary strength
for the long sleeps that bring freedom

found in the humming silences
of the mother
living in the dividing cells
of our marrow--

in the multiplication of love
we open our eyes and see
shining clusters of truth
in the smiling face,
at the upturned corners of the mouth
of the most beloved--

in the divine yawning that signals
this launching into the endless flight of slumber
we notice our slowing breath
and gaze with joy at the weightlessness
of moment after moment
of release.

For Joy

Remind me to breathe
next time you look me in the eye,
your soul swirling
in the delicate glass
of my body.

The fragrance of your voice
remains as memory—
the slow notes of jazz piano
needing tuning—
sweet as you hold me close
dancing in the kitchen
while preparing buttered toast
with apricot jam
for late breakfast

and then back to bed
again for loving the light
in the softest folds of skin
at the spaces between fingers
and on the grand desert
of my belly marked again
by the violence
of healing.

Hold me in your arms
and remind me
to take the cool air
of this fall evening
into my marrow
and I will bow
to the sacred blessings
left wanting in the dust
that collects
at your imperfect feet.

Remembering my goodness
is as simple
and brilliant
as opening my heart
to listen to the silent movement
of the kindness of giving up
everything

for only this joy.

I Like it When it is Quiet
after Pablo Neuruda

I like it when it is it is quiet
as the break of early morning
and the dream of you
is still warm on my lips,
your fingerprints
still smell sweet
on the wounds in my side.
It sounds like nothing
as I scan this body for life
and emerge as though I was a visitor
or a solitary butterfly landing
on a single, dewy blossom.
This silence is so close
I am almost absent,
distant and painful
as flight.

The Gathering

The light is beginning to fade
at the edges of the sky
earlier and earlier
so that we might
begin to forget the longest days
gently.

The sun leaves us
with the heat of the earth
and we begin to gather
the harvest of another summer
into shadows and glass jars
like it was possible to bottle
forever.

Today you have journeyed again
to the ocean to swim with the salty waves
and play in the fountain of some other truth.
The message you send from that light, that ultimate grace,
is that you are gathering the bounty of the watery body
so that I may not go hungry.
You gather the essence of all loneliness
and fill it up with your enormous heart
and send it with blessings of abundance
to everything I have ever wanted.

What fear is there
when we share this feast?

What regret is possible
when you hold your hands out
willingly signaling a clear sky
and the path to all that is--
the fire of the gathering of good souls
who have lead the way
to the center of knowing.

I can only wrap myself in this promise of the moment
and bow to the warmth of your skin
against my skin
and know that we are awake
like the harvest
of light
into
the sea of stars.

Wishing Stars

Love,
when I am no longer body
and you have watched
what is left of my flesh
slip through your fingers

scatter my ashes into your morning
tea and remember the sweetness
on the heat of your tongue,

remember the words
that last longer than a lifetime
dedicated to the muse
of joy that laughed
at our pleasure
in the silence
of our breathing
at the edges of lips
and tender skin,

remember the treasures
no one but those truly awake
to each other
find in the depths, the thirsty wells
of a lover’s eyes.

When the frost comes
bury the earth of my red hair
with the daffodils and tulip bulbs
so that I might bloom
in golden and purple healing,

or if you can’t bear to part
as the light is leaving the skies for winter,
offer me in spring
to the roots of pumpkins and tomatoes
who will gladly take my cells
and rebuild them
into the candlelight
we loved to savor
in the music of evening.

If all else fails
and your courage is gone,
walk into the enormous love
of the sea
with my remains clutched
nearest to your heart
so that I might hear the waves
beating there one last time
before we sink into the depths
together to wait
for our next lives

shining in the truth
of the brightest
wishing stars.

Of Nothing

Resting on the shore
of your body
I am silent
in the muted light
of a half moon.

What joyful dream is this
that allows me to return
to this safe haven
time and time again
with a key to kindness jangling
in my otherwise empty pocket?

The water surrounds us
on all sides
of this island of compassion.
Here the treasure
is buried under
the surface of our skin
and in the wide open cavity
of our hearts.
The world is an unnecessary map
as we have discovered everything
glittering and gold in our loving.

You crawl in to the secret of me
and appear as if all purple
and lush green light
has been extracted
from the night’s sky
and arrives fully formed
in the smile you have delivered
freely from the promise
of nothing.

I breathe as if remembering
10,000 lifetimes
and have whispered the words
of a prayer taught to me
by every other
mirrored image of you.

Anniversary of Air

It is the mist of August
that descends like a sleepless woman
into the trees,
where the earth has no beginning
and looks like the sister
of the end of time,
where I open the door
to the memories that throw shadows
on the fire of what might have been enough.

In this dream
that is always beginning
you are the mirror of my lover,
flow blue
as button posies
in the moonlight
and speak to me
in the hushed language
of God.

In this dream
that is always beginning
we exchange bodies like madness
while the river disappears behind the bend
of our thoughts.
Here you embrace me
from the inside out
and eternity
is only a long hesitation
while we practice our sighs
like breathing
toward permanent change.

Meanwhile, the news from home is easy
and says “Look at the calendar.”
and notice what day it is
and you will understand
that today is the day
straw turned to gold
and that the anniversary of air
has changed each day
we have lived since then
because we have dared to embrace
the sin that is rightly ours.

I Didn’t Hear It Then

What does it matter
to the longest stretches of time,
measured in light years,
or by the distances
between the planets and stars,
by granite cooling
after melting
in the center of the earth,
or perhaps by the sudden pop
of a sonic boom
as the force of leaving
explodes in the ear.

What if it doesn’t matter
that the silences
and the groping
on the hard surface of stone,
leaving me bruised and thrilled
with uncertainty tucked
into the spaces in my bones,
was all there ever was
of kindness?

Spiritual focus requires one
of two things:

Faith in what one cannot see
or the awareness of the greatest good
living as light and decibels vibrating
within the cells of each living thing.

When I watch your eyes
in the midst of love
in your hands—
When I see you gather
that life like a bouquet
of summer about to burst
into blossom—
I realize all the universe
I never heard
in the other songs
I have learned.

The August robins are gathering
just as they always do
when the light diminishes the way
we see summer and look
discontentedly at green.

And in the dream threads
I extract from the center
of my heart’s truth after sleeping,
the red-breasted ones
whisper the 10000 ways
to fly
before it is too late
to carry
your soul.

While Sinners Gossip

Lately,
as the earth begins to end,
the memory of heaven
has arrived in the order of affection
on the cluttered cupboards
of the neighbor’s rented cottage.

Come to tea at this ghost’s home
and the theology of practicing doubt
will be preached
over savory zucchini cakes
and muffins overflowing
with August.

God has given up drinking
in this kitchen
and has given himself
to the world’s wife
who has learned
what it took to seduce
the winter constellations
by reading notes
in the margins of possibility
and weaving the flowers of existence
into her attractive tendrils
on the length of steamy summer afternoons.

Forever is easy
around this cozy table
and the Almighty is willing
to walk out of Eden
to watch life unfold
in this particular eternity
while the river of truth
and honeyed scones
drop lightly
onto the marbled counters
while his beloved gossips
about the moon.

As I Am

Take me as I am,
the soft, ripe peach
of my left breast
and her nostalgic twin,
hanging bare in anticipation
of the harvest of your fingers,
the fine skin smooth, delicate
but for the downy fuzz of light
that summons your mouth
to the pink of a nipple.

What juicy sweetness you’ll find there
gathering perfume
from the inside
where the hard pit of morning
will be discarded,
dissolved into only the certainty
of this moment of opportunity
for happiness shared
between your lips
and my untouched skin.

Fear of the physical world’s agenda
and the frantic guarding of the body
straining against this fall,
against the gravity we all witness
is an obscenity
that will not enter
this bed chamber.

This sacred space
of the immaculate mind
is the only sensation
that is available
to replicate joy
as it drips
cool and delicious
down your chin
and onto the belly
of all you desire.

Unconditional

At the sharp edge of the waning moon,
cast onto the surface of Silver Lake,
I watch my loneliness
reach out to embrace
the idea of a lover
who might dive in
on the other side of this blackness
and find me sitting here
waiting for all this emptiness
to disappear as easily as drowning.

I have become the moon
who foolishly rises with hope
into the skies looking at all that might be
only to find myself used up,
slowly lost in the sea of stars
until I am unseen,
invisible to the caresses
of truth and gentle love.

I am, after all, unconditional
in my ways,
and always dance
with my hand
held lightly
over the heart
of my partner
in this tango
that weaves the soul tightly
to the causes of flesh
and joy that rises up
like tides
pulled by the forces
of the singing moon.

I am, after all,
hung over from the excesses
of this celebration
I was not invited to.
I am recovering
from the spaces between
birth and the place of all
knowing.

Sitting still
I wait for the next breath
to rescue me from hooting owls
and the deep repetition
of ancient, howling loons
before sleep laps up
onto the empty shore.

Healer

When I was a child
I knew I was destined
to repair those ripped seams of skin
where the smell of blood
turns black
and eyes cry out
in audible agony.

Boys gathered near me
to watch my skill
in attracting ants
and the shining shells of beetles
on the playground
so that we might
build kingdoms and control destiny
for a little while.

Grateful,
we slowed the space
between the movement of day
into endless night.

Once a newly hatched robin
fell into that place of stillness
and the ants and beetles
disassembled her body,
carried her off to the burial grounds
with elegant ceremony
and prayers
to no one.
Each small and powerful body
released mystery into the air
like the notes
of a song.

“Watch us,” they said in their musical movement.

“Watch here and know
the envy of every healer
as they plunge their spirit
into the cavity of the body
and come out
dripping
with life.”

Helpless

Chase the thought
that control of anything
is in your grasp
and watch reason,
or the shadow of sanity,
disappear.

You can no sooner control
sadness in the fibers of the heart
than you can control the light
that creeps over the hills at dawn
when fog has come to rest
in the grasses
and disappears--
vanishes when touched
by the sun.

There’s no arguing
with the curving ache
in the bones of your fingers
as joints expand
after years of hard labor
and with the holding
of the hands of all your children
as they fall into gentle sleep.

Honey is the helpless product
that buzzing bees
manufacture in their mouths
and that sooths
the wounds we cannot mend
with the essence of clover
or time.

Waging war with the sleeping giants
of death and unusual pain
are battles you will never win—
As skilled as you have become
with the blade of your certainty
and sword,
you will fail and fall
to those forces of gravity
and collide with the absolute truth
of ash blowing silent in the wind.
Instead, make friends
with water and the cleansing joy
of surrendering to your tears.
It is courage enough
to greet the honest face of love
with that much fear.

Empty Cupboard

1.

After years of greedy feasting
without regard to the other guests
at the table he has set

the round belly
of man of the house
is suddenly empty.

There is nothing left
to pick from my bones
and to break the whiteness open
and suck the marrow
in front of my sunken cheeks
and hungry eyes
would be too cruel
even for his unsatisfied appetites
and demands for elegant sauces
and choicest morsels
he could not afford.

Like an angry child
he lowers his fist to the table
chanting
obnoxious pleas
for love.

Old Mother Hubbard
has come to live
in my skin
and stares silently
back at the bloated face
that must learn the lessons
of moderation
and how to fend
for himself.

2.

What I have made of this life
is not mine.
It is the borrowed sugar
of my neighbor.
I cannot serve her
these pies and preserves
made of the fruits
stolen from her trees—
bruised by the fall.

I cannot blame her for leaving
the flesh to ripen
and gather heat and light
of the summer,

and yet, the idea of wasting
a beautiful harvest
was too much for me
to resist.

The bounty offered
a temptation
I gathered
into my finest baskets
to deliver
to a well-appointed kitchen,

ready to prepare
the illusion
of goodness
of the finest kind.

3.

It is time for me to walk away
from the table set for the woman

I am no longer.

These plates and silver
were never mine

and the furnishings
reluctant hand-me-downs
from the ancestors
who slept in single beds.

I am empty
in this unhappy place
and have almost forgotten
the sound of my own
uninhibited laughter
under the weight
of your desire.

Into the traveling pack
of my own light
I have placed
a cup for wine or water,
a knife for cutting cheese and bread,
and a shallow blue bowl
for soup and fresh fruit
on which I will dine gratefully
and in the company of grace.

Rising

The smell of yeast of the soul
rises to my nostrils
in the early hours of morning
as the sheets release the night
into day.

My body
still fertile as the earth
of any woman who bleeds
is awake and searching
for signs of love.

There is no warm body
to reach out to
in this yellow light
but I feel you close
as if you were a hand to hold,
a breath to take in
and then release, lips
to touch together and moisten
with my tongue.

We are dancers
who have learned to move
without ever touching
each other,
the silent magic of magnets
sometimes forced together
like glue
are turned around in us
to opposite polarity
so that we must spin away
toward others who attracted us
without understanding the way atoms
are gathered in clusters
without a mind to sorting
oxygen from carbon
or lead from gold.

We are not love birds
wedded to the nest
where hatchlings
will learn to fly
with our prompting,
and yet we fly
so near each other
the feathers of our wings
often touch
and the wind is our master
in no time or place
when we travel
without heed
to the seasons passing
or the causes of human suffering.

My longing rises up
with the heat of the day
and I smile
knowing spirit
enters me
and fills me
like no other lover
I have ever known.

What is Not Said

Watch closely
as I move my fingers
against the grain of the fabric
that makes up your thoughts.
Those intricately woven threads
are becoming the life line
I return to for comfort again
and again in the memory
of a time when words
were not needed—

where complications of chronology
and space washed ashore
on the white beaches of the mind
with answers stuffed carefully
into the bottles blown thin
in the shape of our hearts—
the messages clearly
calls for help
and salty love.

Knowing all that has been,
how do we extend our hands
to the divinity that lives
within the other
on days like today
when sleep has gone
past our bed,
and pain lives
in the large bones of our legs,
making travel toward peace
seem impossible?

I reach out anyway,
like Eve asking forgiveness
from Adam for handing him the fruit
angels dared not to taste,
and step in
to embrace
the soul’s companion
as if nothing stands in the way
of gathering grace
into my arms.

There are no words necessary
in this sweet rising up
to look you in the eye and finally see
everything that truly matters.
Tracing letters with our tongues
would only diminish the joy
found in silent recognition—
understated in the jazz
that trembles constantly
in the knowing notes written
in the encyclopedia of the body.

What is not said
laughs,
absorbing the language
of longing like liquid gold
condensing around a lifetime
that will never be lost
on words
or with such foolish games
that we mortals
have learned
to walk
within.

Squandering Blue

There is a part of me
that is beyond what is us,
where winter
and Jupiter’s moons
call to the floors of the seas
for waves that rage,
blindsiding sailors
with water and turbulence
until the walls of blue
squander everything.

Release the fury
from my fingers
and flash from the strands
of my electric hair
while I stand alone and naked
in front of you
leaving you gasping for breath
as the colors fade into golden coins
of truth at our feet.

Here, the evolution
of spirit
has grown wings
and lifts up
from the base
of my spine
to the crown
at my temples,
bejeweled with sapphires, and emeralds
and purple amethyst light
that dances around
each of us
like fire.

I am not afraid
of what might be lost
in this union.
I can only let the brilliance
wash through me
in all manner of death
that must bring abundant new life.

Swarm on the Solstice

The hum of summer
lives inside my mouth today
like a swarm of contented bees
drunk on honey,
the hive celebrating
her Queen by busily fanning
the energy of kindness
all around this beautiful center
of sweetness.

As the sun rises to her highest,
the moon picks up speed--
waxing toward fullness,
sharing the brilliance of light
even in the blue of the day.
These round mysteries
can’t help themselves
as they dance together.
Their movements suggest a joy
we might all share in this
remembered awakening.

The ocean breezes have come
to the wings of my skin
from far away on this morning
the same way they have
for a thousand lifetimes
on this first day of summer.
The tendrils near this soft longing
sigh with a breath
that will be taken in again
and gentled toward the core
like a whisper
of all the times I have loved
so fully that I burst open
in golden green and violet light
and I laugh out loud,
vibrating like the hive around me,
as royal as all summers
that take flight to some new home.

Blues in Bed

Why get up from my dreaming of writing
the blues with strangers at a piano
when they are still all around me
laughing and adding verses like limericks
and lovers making light
of these bodies,
note by note,
between these white sheets
in the heat of an almost summer Sunday?

I turn to see you
looking at my sleepy face
smiling and welcoming me
into your arms
to hold me in the folds of flesh
like a sacred set
of breaths
only two can share
in the unbelievable
silence of knowing
unconditional love.

Hold me in this happy place where time stops
and then races ahead
and swirls around us
making no sense
of the ticking of clocks
or the white space
between the black keys
of days
that have stacked themselves
into years
that became a lifetime
of forgetting.

Pain is nothing
next to your chest
as I wrap my arms
around the thin frame
of the story
after story
that becomes the truth
of you.

Don’t wait to tell me anything.

In this dream of music memory,
the words weave
a gauze and smooth an ointment
that heal these wounds
we somehow have come to share.
Tear bandages of primitive strength
into strips that bind these insults
with another kind of light.

Through the open window of the universe
I can hear you humming
a familiar gospel
the shades of twilight
and indigo.

Sketching a Room Where Love Lives

It is the precise green of spring
in another time of another life
when, on a pad of blank paper,
you make notes about the way shadows
trace the lines on my face
and you presently offer
to sketch of a room
where love lives.

“What would you bring?”
you ask
after settling on two comfortable chairs
and a small table between
meant for tea cups and books
that must be discussed.


“I will bring flowers
fresh cut from my garden
and green plants that will balance the air
and the light that can’t help but stream
through the glass and celebrate the knowing
between us.”

“Let us bring pillows
and soft blankets
for meditation
and napping
near the window seat.”

“Let us fill shelves
with favorite books
and films we must see
while touching
palm to palm.”

Candles and blue glass vessels.
Wicker and wood and metal
objects to hold stones and shells,
petals and papers,
pictures and faces
of things and people
we adore.

There is a coat rack
for leaving the outside world in it’s place,
like removing useful garments against the elements,
and a small rug for shoes near the door.

“Will you bring the flavors of fresh yeasty bread
with crab apple jelly and sweet raspberry jam,
good cheese and grainy crackers, fresh fruit, nuts,
and farmer’s vegetables
to sustain us, Love?”
I say.

”And, of course, there is the matter of my green sweater
and slippers to cover painted toes,
and the mug filled with favorite pens,
and some way to share music.”

“Crystals will catch the sun here
and paint rainbow on the walls.
Soft voices will read poetry
and dictate stories here.”

Silence will not be a weapon here
and words exact tools for understanding
of all matter of things.

“Let us not forget,
in this place of simple beauty,” you say,
“that it is in kindness
where love first resided
and is the place where
we will return again and again
to perfect our design.”

“But most of all,
since you asked,” I reply.
“I will bring this body
that carefully moves
and remembers
the threads that dance
and breathe
in this friendship
of the soul.”

Tools of Prayer

I am deep water.
You are the fire that warms bones.

I am infinity.
You have questions
about the sturdiness of each wall
that surrounds us.

In the night I awake
to the hum of your absent body
and the smell of lavender.

In the painting
tattooed on your skin
dragons wrap themselves with snakes,
spider webs are covered
by the sound of the Buddha
laughing
and I have traced your name
a thousand times,
letter for letter,
on my plain paleness,
understanding the caution
of forever.

One of us is a stone
rolled smooth by the ocean.
The other is the taste of smoke
exhaled and disappearing
after loving.

One of us is a sip of cool wine.
The other the hand placed flat
on the surface of the kitchen table,
convinced of the smooth comfort
of wood.

In the revolving door
of this incarnation,
memory does not serve me
with abundant kharma,
but leaves me guessing.
Thus, my troubled intuition,
my endless kindness for others
and for blue eggs
dropped from the nest.

Have mercy
and explain yourself
and the temperature of the air
that hovers like a ruby-throated warrior
in my dreams.

Amuse me
with the light of candles
in the private room
of anywhere
so that I might burn
with the shame
that has taught me
to fly.

I am the woman
crossing the path
known only to animals;
the soul companion
you forgot you had.

I am the beads in the palm
of your hand as your pray
for enlightenment
and the pull of peace.

Room

1.

In the quiet of my breath
it is possible to return
to the tiny room I created
while my father’s voice
coaxed imagination
to decorate freedom
from the farm in Minnesota
when I was only twelve.

He, with his sailor’s adventure,
opened the riggings
and was the person
who first taught me
to fly across the surface
of the mind toward beauty.

My room was cozy,
tucked into the rafters
of a Swiss chalet
with one window looking east
at mountains and a small lake.

The narrow bed was enough
with a thick quilt and fluffy pillows
to gather around like the gentle clouds
of sleep.

A simple desk
sat under the window
for writing
and the wardrobe
held the simple clothes
made by hand.

In this place of the mind
the sun was always
morning and shining
with the promise of alone.

Happy there.
I am still happy
to meditate my body
into silence
and my thoughts
only whisper,
just out of earshot,
content to not be heard.

2.

I have moved
39 times in 45 years
and can pack a house
in two days with the proper cardboard
and excess newspaper
all reading houses must hold.

From the Philippines to Aberdeen,
from Fargo to Florida,
and then to Minnesota’s Onamia, Milaca,
Willmar, Morris, and St. Paul
before New Hampshire.

I first remember the built-ins
at the top of the stairs
and the pink rooms
with Alice in Wonderland curtains
made by my mother

and the summer we were homeless
and chased by dark rain clouds
and too many tornados to count
on their fingers stuck out of clouds
like God pointing out our rebellious sin.

And now, in the place that has held me longest,
for over ten years, it is not my home,
but someone else’s,
where I have camped,
if only for a little while longer,
under the mirrored glass of stars
and the constant swirl of dancing umbrellas.

3.

I’m coming home
to my body again
after the earthquakes
have flattened my disbelief.
After abandoning the shell
of the sunny farmhouse
that lives in the cave
of my chest.

In the invited dream
my guides have taught me
to open the beautifully
painted doors
into room after empty room
of light.

These spaces are sparse and glow
and have had no need to collect clutter
or the ugly leftovers of history.

These rooms inside me
welcome a soul to sit down,
look around and marvel
at the gestures
of laughter
in a vase of flowers
and the freedom
of lifting a window
off the frame to offer
the movement of air.

Dwelling in the Cave

The cave is among us
and has drawn us in
and roars with the empty
longing of the spaces
between the stars
and the darkest shadows
of every hollow moon.

Reach out your hand
and I might take it
as we walk on the shifting sands
of the beaches nearest the life force
we must drink deeply,
let it soak into our painful bones
and live
eyes set on the presence
of the fragile line
of the horizon.

Back in the darkness
we leave our weapons
empty
and melt into the goodness
of stone
so that we might emerge
into the light,
after each death we suffer,
and break open
like the buds of so many
spring flowers.

Dare to love me
as I am learning to love,
freely without the contract
of time.
The body finds her way
on the path worn
by the purest essence;
the scent of soul,
darkly musky
and damp
from the weeping walls
of the cave
we come home to,

the exhalation
of a lifetime of holding,

the pose of peace
and the harvesting
of the sweetest suffering
of the longing to fly.

Sing

The electric green of new dawn
eclipses my senses;
eyes blinking,
practicing sighs
into the theory
of another day.


Truth be told
I have often observed
this color in the portraits
of all the other women
I have ever been,

and the anniversary
of spring,
the rising up from the land
into the gospel
of the voice
of a single wood thrush,

a winged angel
interpreting
the foreign words
of music,
whispering joy
into the ear of God,

is enough to ignite
the whole universe
I have become
and burn with infinity
traced on the skin
of my inner thigh

and flash at the tips
of the lashes
that will welcome twilight
at the end of the world
with the notes
of an unknown song
flowing freely
from the space
of my open mouth.

The Promise of Earth

Falling snow
mingles with pink petals
of apple blossoms
on these last days
of April.

The instinct
to stick out my tongue
and taste the sweetness
is delighted and hopeful
the peas won’t freeze
and the purple haze of lilac
will awaken just as soon
as the clouds clear
and the full moon
breaks through the dark
like your pronouncement
of love, bold and exact
as redemption.

Forgive me
for loving you back
in this unexpected turn of events.
It is,
like this late snow,
breathtaking and confusing
to see the light of flowers glow
while in the same blurry vision
dreams that winter has arrived
to turn back time.

In the other life
that resides in my shoulders
I wrapped my sorrow around me
like a shawl of prayer
willing my worry to arrive
at the dooryard—
making his unhappy deliveries
day after dark day.

Fear was that stray kitten
who would not be coaxed
from between the truth
of my solid ribs
and who waited
for the white flakes of morning
to melt and find a way to trust
in the silence,

understanding the grasp
at the scruff of the neck
was comfort
and might mean home.

Back at my gray window
I look out at the shaking fingers
of maple leaves,
watch the tight curls of a fern
relax even under the weight
of these cold kisses.

I have become my sister,
Emily Dickenson,
gazing from the inside out,
looking for the words to release
unexplained pain
like an exhalation
of a long held breath
or the startled bird
taking to flight.

From this high place
above the landscape,
let me instead notice
I am not a prisoner
without the keys
to my dark cave of a cell,
but rather
the spaces between the elements
of water and fire

and the air lifting
snow gently
to the promise
of earth.

Dream of Losing Everything

In the dream
that comes back to me
night after night,
my mind happily pretends
to lose everything.

In that glorious spring
I first lose my clothes, my vanity
and then my children.

The dishes break like magic,
the glasses shatter.

The house disappears, foundation and all.

My hair falls out in bloody red tufts
and my teeth are all loose
in the confused words of my mouth.

The papers blow away in the purple wind
and my mind. . .

Oh, my mind
is the gold ring
that washes slowly,
as if forever
will never arrive,

down the watery drain.

In Love

I am in love with the new pink
and green dresses
forming at the tips
of the maple branches
outside my window.

These little girls smile
and twirl in the drops of rain
that make me shiver
and pull the blankets up
to the place where the world
wants to get in.

Little dancers
you wake me like noisy,
happy children chattering
with light.

The gray day
will not dampen your delight
in spring that is falling
into the pale green
that glows into the heat
of summer.

Water jewels
catch at your hems
and hum an absent tune
that travels softly
from your wisest voice
to my reluctantly
waking mind
and warm opening of
this understanding heart.

The Sound of Om

Come to the truth
of the mirror again this morning.

Look me in the eye
while your trembling hands
trace the edges
of black against white
on the map of my skin
and I will tell you my story
of so much suffering.

Joy stands alone in the reflection
and will not be lost in the sound
of a clicking clock today.

I will only be convinced
by the shape of your heart
to leave all measurement
to God and anyone else
who would like to judge
my thoughts of loving
the warmth of your fingerprints
above the letters of "yes"
on my lips.

Wrap your arms around all the losses
I will never recover
and I will sink to my knees
and touch your feet with wet tears
and the softness of my hair
that I pledge
to give back to the vanity
of the earth.

I will forgive myself
for everything
if only you will promise
to say my name
in meditation

and when I wrap
strong legs around the universe
and moan quietly under my breath
to the sound of Om.

Blue

This contract with sadness is written
just under the surface of my hide—
blue veins
darting in and out
of white flesh—
heart pounding
on and off
with bursts
of light
flashing
like a beacon on the edge
of roughest waters—
circling and casting out
hope into the fog—
moaning in desperation
long at the side of grief—
the sharp boulders
that will not yield
no matter how they are tossed
in the healing waters of the salty sea.

My love for you
was thrust into a bottle
and conveniently corked
so many lives ago
when I first discovered
you could not be trusted
to honor anything
but the enormous space
you needed to take up in the universe.

I bobbed in that heavy mercury
looking for the waves
that would take me
safely to shore—
to the soft sand of forgiveness
that could not save me
from washing overboard.

In this year
I have unexpectedly
become a blue beachcomber.
Blue in the twilight of all that must
be recovered and released
like the smooth treasures of sea glass
and perfectly sun-bleached shells.

Flying White

If you want to know
something about this woman,
look into the foggy design
on the edges of paper,
imagine what no longer exists
of the light that was once
a brilliant star,
and you will understand
the empty spaces
that fill me now.

Near the ocean
I walk long against the wind
gathering the bodies of broken shells
who rest in the tentacles of the water’s garden
harvested by so much winter anger.

These corpses cast shadows
of negative space on the gestures
I make with my heart
to see more clearly
as I leave comfort
for the cold truth
to find gulls hovering over waves,
glide as if suspended, searching
never finding the flashing silver
scales of trust.

From this shore
the details of flight
are simple, white
and unpainted as the sky
before the arrival
of the rosy hand of dawn,
confusing the scene
with color.

Awake

Awake and too aware
of your arm draped over my body

as if claiming territory
for yourself.

I nearly crawl
our of my skin

waiting to escape
from this falling

this bottom dropping out
from under everything
I hadn’t already lost.

I slip away smoothly
from your sleeping

into the cool darkness
toward another bed

where anonymous pillows become comfort
I wedge into the length of my back,

under my delicate neck,
and between my arms;

my lonely knees.

Here, in my healing pose,
I am learning to fly solo.

Learning to spread
my clipped wings.

Writing Naked

In the early mornings of 5 a.m.
the light is barely there
behind the branches of the maple
between the darkness and everything,
and I can’t help but notice my breath
and the girl hurt that circulates in my blood
just to prove I am alive.

In this light,
in this body,
I write naked
in only my skin
and fragile bones,
imagining the earth
without you,
noting the circles of my words
and the roundness of my breasts
as they brush the edges of the page.

Here the possibilities of existence
and the attraction of belly pressed to belly,
hip locked to hip,
face daring to face
eye to exacting eye
are all that I can practice.

Heaven is the place
where lovers in a second hand life
make meaning out of flesh
and a few words
are carefully chosen
for these moments
of heated enlightenment.

Tell me your stories
of the most unusual names for God
and I will tell you the chronicle
of the land without sleeping.

Remember out loud with me
the melting of your frozen childhood
and the times you nearly died in the mud
and I will brush your lips with the danger
of my trembling fingers.

Walk with me along silent beaches
and stroke my cheek with kindness
and I will leave the pen and paper
I’ve gathered in these empty and exposed cells
like a butterfly emerging from her broken chrysalis
to trace my love for you
into the inky paths
that stretch over the canvas
of your soul.

Shakespeare’s Sickbed

Miserable and trying to find a Zen moment
of acceptance in another sick day
at the end of winter.

My throat and ear rage with full colonies of bacteria,
fighting in the hot stream of my blood,
when I spy Shakespeare’s sideways glance
cajoling me into my words,
away from the battlefields
of this miniature war
and suffering.

His eyes follow me from his place
in the collage on the wall
near gardens, bright visions of ancient cities,
and simple hellos.

My friend does not judge,
but offers thanksgiving and advice
to read and write in the quiet of the morning
while the body designs exits
and dares to disturb the universe.

Spirits of other poets circle my bed now
smiling as I await redemption
in these lines.

For who is to know
what inspiration came to Shakespeare
in his simple longing
and in his lonely sickbed?

Owl Song

It is suddenly March
and the sun has come,
creeping back in the direction
of my windows
so that the geranium I saved
from the outdoor place
of frost before winter
has cast out hope
in the form of red
brilliant blossoms
and new shoots
of green smiles
and their undeniable life.

Last night
at this same window
the lonely sound of owl song
came to find me
in the unexpected splendor
of alone.

Who would have predicted
I'd prefer solitude calling from branches
of tall pine to the hungry arms
of expectation?

Who would have known
that a few tender words
and stolen kisses of light
would fill me with the echos
of night birds
calling to their lovers
before the feasting of the shadows
nearest the heart?

Tonight I will sit quietly again
as the sun sets to the magic blue
of spring melting snow
and practice waiting
for nothing
near the red of another years' flowers

and the haunting silent flight
toward the question
of so much grateful love.

The Galaxy of Faith

Under the surface of my skin,
somewhere in the smallest muscles
of my body,
I am always preparing
for happiness.

At the cellular level
of this inner galaxy of faith
flesh is filled to drunkenness
with joy.

The ship readies herself
to set sail
past the danger
of mythology
and charts her course
toward the center of all truth,

where islands of peace float on calm seas,
kindness is ripe with abundance,
and angels
hover close
with the song of God
on their breath.

Giving Up The Night

Raven clatters against the window at sunset
announcing the darkness
that comes with the leaving
of the light.

The lattice of lace
can’t stop the bristle
at the back of my neck
where I hold the thought of sleep
as a memory ground finely
into the stars that become
the flashes of Aurora Borealis,

illuminating the calendar
that would like to beckon spring
but has lost the words
for those younger parts of the body
that can make love
and simply regenerate themselves
into something whole,
something absolutely new.

Why then, am I bargaining with a song
I don’t know anymore
and holding the tattered wings of a monarch
who was too weak to fly over the mountains?

Perhaps it is time
to give up the night—
let the windows fly open
and allow all the ghosts
and chance to come closer,
to take their places
next to me in my single bed,

let the ocean
that could be love
wash over me
and plant pearls
along the chord of my spine
where I’ve learned to stretch
into the shell of myself,

give up the night
and the time it takes
to close my eyes
and instead descend
into the ebony wind.

Wild Strawberries

Wild strawberries
the size of buttons
grow abundant on the farm
in Minnesota.

They are ripe
and ready
in time for pancakes
on Father's Day.

Pop a few in your mouth
while picking the dozens it will take
to flavor Daddy's breakfast
with butter and the maple syrup
we made over the slow
open fires
of almost spring.

The sun warms your cheeks now.
The grassy places
where you imagine your body away,

negotiate for wings,

are soft and sweet
and shimmering
with light.

Dreaming The Way Out

In the letter I write
to one of my imaginary friends,

the words disappear
from a screen into small particles
of dust that find their way
to waking eyes after a long sleep,

the mythology of danger
becomes just another romance
where you lay your head
and dream.

In this letter
I tell you
I have tasted
the sweetness of the apple
and liked it.

In this letter
I am not ashamed
of the impulse
to please my body,
let her touch what she will touch,
without losing her way.

In this letter
I recognize the power of scent
and the nose of the soul
finds her way home
even when the rain
has washed the flavor of oranges
from the ground under the four corners
of the feet.

This is, after all,
the grove all around me
and I have only
to reach out a hand
to find my lover
smiling
and his mouth dripping
with the juices
of the new morning.

To the Cyst Growing in My Belly

At first
I had no idea
you were there,
hiding on the dark side
of the ovary—

tendrils, tiny shoots
of root taking hold
of the orb.

You appeared
like a phantom
in a photo
of the womb—

more alone
than ground control
and the voice of a stranger
could make me feel.

But, there you were,
the size of a plum,
full of sweet water
and smiling at the trick
you’d played,
found in this game
of peek-a-boo
with your mother.

Surgery, the doctor said.
Removal, puncture, twisting,
death, hysterectomy,

or, at my frown-creased brow.

Wait and see
with needles and herbs,
talk therapy,
castor oil and heat.

Wait and see.

Take another photo
later.
Line them up
like the growth
of a healthy child.
Fat cheeks, giggling
curls.

I make conversation
in that dark place,
ask what the lesson is
in this holding,

in this secret language
of the body
trying to tell me something
from the inside
out--
like pulses
on a ticking
clock.

Translation

Sit next to me
in silent prayer
with your skin
delicately etched

examine the color
of my white covering
as if it was the most sacred text
to be handled with gloves,

carefully turning pages
worn thin by devotion
to finding meaning.

Nothing will be lost
in the translation
of the body
if you place your heart
at the center of the page

inhale ancient truths
waiting to be released
by your touch.

Servant Door

Starting from nowhere
I find myself believing in things
bigger than myself—
that fragile city
somewhere near home.

The dark is no longer
the servant door
at which I must enter,
invisibly,
but instead
becomes the gateway
of all knowing.

I have only to close my eyes for a moment
and the universe that gathers
in the grooves of your fingers
near the surface of my skin
erupts with the voltage of summer
storm on the edge
of still water.

Why then, live in doubt
of whom we must serve?

Believe in the sky
and the way love sits
at the base of the spine
waiting to be recognized
in laughter
or at the deep
echoing well
of eyes awake
and unafraid
to finally hold
your gaze.

At this open door
of acceptance
we will enter paradise—
entwined and smiling
at the promise
of thousands of tomorrows.

The Constitution of Winter

The constitution of winter
jingles in the trees
at the calm dawn.

Birds whose flight
keeps them constant in the cold,
twitter and chirp
with red squirrels
like shining crystals of light
and sound captured
in the moment
between sorting small logs
from heavy oak
into the sling I carry
to my hearth and the heat
that warms my belly and breath
where I sit
contemplating
the body
and the boundaries
of the mind.

In the quiet of my breath
I can see myself
sitting plain skinned
with no adornments.
I am stripped to the shell
of this dwelling
and only the fullness
of the spectrum
can enter safely
in peace.

So stark
this familiar
brilliance,
I blink
until my eyes water
tears of vibrant joy

and words trace the outline
of a smile,
the darkness
of an excited pupil,
the fine hairs
brushed with desire
at the curve of the neck,

and the memory
of the sound
of your voice
undoes me

as I follow the flight
of a smoky Junco
into the pines

where the meaning
of truth
in January’s expanding
white wave
is often found.

Talking to My Body

In this conversation
we begin at my feet
in the big toe
like it was the sun
at the center
of the universe
and all the little toes
planets circling
with a toenail for a moon.

Gather them in the growing darkness
like the beginning of a dream
that never ends
and place them gently
between the humming of the heart
and the glowing light of reason.

What meditation
would be complete
without the whispering mind
hoping to distract you
with a simple game of fate
like Rock, Paper, Scissors--
like Children, Lover, Daily Bread--
before you can bring the breath
to the bones of an ankle?

She is quieted
by the librarian's hush
of the nose inhaling coolness,
exhaling slightly warmer relief
from thinking.

Thinking about the color of the sky
or the tingle at the back of the neck--
but thinking then
about dropping the body
through the feet,
legs dissolving--
running out the bottom of the hourglass
until the buttocks and belly are focused--
the fire connected with the spirit.

Red cords longing to untie themselves,
release the body all together,
take flight from the chest and arms,
rising and falling at the evening knowledge--

waves of the voice calling,
singing to the third eye,
roots in the air--

the crown lifts to the stars
and we connect again
with the sun in the toes.

Thinking again of escape
from all knowing,
all temptation to talk to the stranger
who will require simple kindness.

Suddenly breathe
and fall into the depths
of silence.

Nothing is promised.
Nothing left behind.
Nothing to discover,
but the true self
across the table
as if sitting down
for tea.