The Virtue of Silence

I knew it was over
the day you told me
about the hike into the hills,
deep enough to find a cave
made for meditation

or if the sun shone
just right on the opening,
in the days that equal nights of the fall,
a place where you and I could strip down
to just our skin and merge
into that leaving light
and finally touch peace.

You said
you didn’t have time
to show your true face.
It wasn’t real enough for you
to take that risk in the shadows of faith.

The cave,
the place a womb could open
and birth pure love,
it is here you decided to take the path
another way home.

Though this heart couldn’t be any more shattered,
than it is tonight, a mirror always raises the pen
and puts words to the page
and writes an oath to the self.

I will not be the crumbs
you leave along the rocky way
to find your way back
to this longing.

If I am lucky
I’ll find my own cave soon,
crawl inside her warmth
and heal the hurts of all humanity.
Here there is no betrayal of hope
in the face of a deeper calm,
the tremors of kindness abounding.

You will shake the memory of me
from your weary travel clothes.
The virtue of this silence will save us all.

Leaving Desire

Close the windows so we can’t smell
the sweetness of the breezes
evaporating the dew from autumn leaves today.

Draw the blinds and pull the curtains tight.
The sun is too brilliant,
inviting us through soft fog
to walk in this morning, this new October.

I will stop cooking food
rich with butter and salted delicately to taste.
No pumpkin bread will emerge steaming hot from my kitchen
with cloves, cinnamon, or allspice.
Apples and peaches are now out of the question.

The sound of my children laughing as they play must stop.
Those smothering giggles of absolute joy are more than one woman
should endure.

I vow now to give up digging into the doughy dirt each fall,
placing the promise of daffodil, tulip, crocus in her breast.
There will be no purple hyacinth or Star Gazer lilies next year.
I promise to pull up the peonies and bleeding hearts.
And, my God, the daisies,
right at the roots, give them away.
My soul is at stake, after all.

Perhaps when my work is done
I will stop,
lie down in the quiet of my dying room.
Here I will find the courage to say goodbye to your face,
the feel of your hands at my waist
and the cupping of my breasts to your lips.
I will ignore the sound of your voice
as you say my name, low
in time to the skipping beat of my heart.

Finally, when I’ve done all that leaving,
I must quietly acknowledge my desire
to love your generous heart.

The naked truth of that absolute lust
must be locked away in the tomb I will occupy.
It is the clicking shut of that key
and the rattling of these chains of wanting
that will release me from all these illusions
and suffering attachment to this last life.

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.

Surrendering

Tonight the moon slices
blood orange across a harvest sky
sinking beneath the horizon
like some lucky ship
and I am reminded of the wetness
deep and dark inside
the folds of my sweetest skin.

I find hope in this softness of night,
her velvet covers smoothing
out the rough hands of disappointment
and rage at these awake days.
This good mother of night
leaves me alone
to the sound of crickets
and tree frogs,
and to the forbidden thoughts that pass
unmistaken by the knowing belly
of the mind.

Stars like I’ve never seen before
populate the sky with the lightness of forever.

You could take me here
in the open fields
on the last days of summer.

I would surrender
everything to you. I would
give you my children, all of them,
and their bright, shining souls, for just one
lifetime of absolute rapture
found in the hems of this red dress.

It would all be worth it
to have you press your cool lips
to the edges of this human gown.

The Destination

In this year I have chosen
to be fully alive
where the moons turn
like pages of a book
toward the ending of my myth,
I want to put my ear
to the center of your chest,
kiss you exactly above your heart,
and set my ear back at that place,
listening like a woman
waiting to hop a midnight train,
feeling the vibrations
that will explain
how I could squander
the brown and black of your eyes
as if they were blue
or even emerald green.

When the snow comes,
and it won’t be very long—
we will build the city
in which I can love you
without the tall walls and heavy doors
of deception.
There is glass and light
as the train pulls into the station
and the conductor calls out our names,
punches our tickets
and proclaims
with a wink and whispers,
“The journey is the destination.”