Driving Toward Home

Today, somewhere near Charlestown,
or maybe it was Claremont,
I drove down Lover’s Lane
going exactly the speed limit
for the first time
in a long time.
I wasn’t in a hurry
to get anywhere.

On the seat beside me
was the dream of a box
shared with a heart
as sweet as the universe can be,
like the copper of November oaks
left to fend for themselves--
nothing but the grey sky
and the smell of snow
to keep warm.
Geese sing sleep as they pass
on their long flight to the river
just ahead of winter.

Meanwhile, the box remembers
the hands of her maker,
trembling with joy at the thought of that love,
that gentle touch.
It woke her before
from a sleep so sound
perhaps she had never been
this alive.

I was witness to another kind of love today,
just as pure as hers.
In that light I was smoothed
like stones,
removed of all my rough edges,
rolled by water and wind
of a storm no one expected.

Now I yield to my partner,
the universe. His will places his hands
carefully, solidly balanced in my core
where I could never go alone.

Talk Love To Me

Talk love to me.
Wrap your words around my waist
and pull me in
close to your belly
soft with breath,
guiding yourself into me
to the wet acceptance
of this spirit we share.

Your love came to me today
in the form of a tree--
a shower of sun yellow leaves
on Washington Street.
A wind blew your name
on my neck.

Lover, you can have me anywhere.
No body is necessary
when the spirit emerges
fireworks more brilliant
than all the individual joy
collected in one thousand lifetimes.

The thought of holding you
is so real
the ghost of you
becomes flesh again.

I take your words in my hands,
trace the shadows of your chest
with my mouth,
and guide you deep
into the core
of my flowering lotus.

Unexpected thunder rolls through my body
like a fire and I am released from my suffering
before it even begins.

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.