Debt

The statement arrived
when I least expected it
just as it does every time.

Late, early
or right on the mark,
I am shocked at the accounting
that unfolds like paper
from an envelope
I am rarely pleased
to see sitting before me.

The balance is nearly always
negative numbers these days—
deposits never covering the withdrawals.

The gifts of kindness
become the childish game of take away
that leaves the hands empty with a jerk of greed.
The heart is turned inside out
in disbelief at the lack that is left
by such neglect.

Coins of anger and disappointment pile carelessly
in the corner of the vault that was once filled
with laughter and hope for wealth
overflowing with unconditional love.

The robbery was silent
and subtle as summer
slipping into fall—
frost taking the flowers of the field
with sparkling brilliance
only to wilt and blacken
into the memory of color.

My purse is empty again tonight
with no prospect of the strength
necessary to let me work
to plant the seeds of a new crop.

I am a beggar at the side of the road.
My eyes dare not look into the face of the stranger.
I cannot stand the pity I might find there.

I can only thrust my cup forward
and pray for mercy and the sound
of ringing metal like the gong
waking me from my sleep.

Mother’s Day

Just when I imagine
I can take it no longer—
must walk out the door with nothing
but my heart and the longing to breathe
without the heavy stone of obligation
crushing my fragile frame—
you save me
with hands centering my face
and a kiss on the mouth
wet and abandoned of any limits
on your love.

Boy child,
if it were not for you
I would have fled long ago
with my books, pictures, pens
and carry away those who share my cells—
my identity boldly stripped from my soul
and worn on the faces of all my children.

All our cells rearrange
and reposition themselves daily
for survival Darwin never imagined.
The spaces between each moment
filled with the courage to stay
when everything tells me—
panics at the realization
I have missed the last train again.

This day before your birth
I must look you in the beautiful blue
of your honest eyes and forgive myself
for making more plans to travel anywhere
but here, imagining another life
free to suffer alone.

Building Fences

“Good fences make good neighbors.”

Stone by stone
the wall appears
out of the field,
out of the soil,
out of nowhere.

Balanced carefully
between the fear of loss
and the fear of what might get in,
this boundary serves you well—
guarding everything,
prepared for anything.

It is beautiful
the way it stands
solidly in its place,
lips tight
and righteously correctly
in the firm border it creates
near the fertile earth
that might be the garden
that feeds the belly and soul—
surrounding the open field,
a meadow who opens herself
to the light of dawn
and the brilliance of a billion stars
at midnight waiting for the birth
of another full moon.

In a century from now
when red squirrels climb through
the bones of this place,
no one will remember
the need to build a false prison
for hearts and minds
so close to freedom.
This headstone of nothing
will stand as a poem
that has forgotten
how to sing.

As Promised

As promised
it is darker here,
in this place of dreaming
where all questions,
all words,
have become the companions
of madness.

Silence and disappointment
stare at me, hold my hand,
wait for me to say something,
anything that will carve meaning
out of the skin I will discard
in the morning.

Hand me the shovel
and let me dig my own place
in the warmth of the earth.
I will nestle myself into this bed
where I am more alone than I have ever been.

The wings that stretched
with courage toward the sky
will stay folded now,
nicely as the hands of a proper woman
in the pews on Sunday morning.

Not even the angels can tempt me to fly again.

Next time they come to visit
the place where my heart used to live,
I will be gone.
The shards of that broken cup
are too small for my fingertips
to recover in this dark place
where I vowed to meet love
with the hope to heal
the world.

I am awake—
my eyes searching
for even a glimmer
of the light
from your candle.

Even a widow eventually learns
that her man will never come home,
and that she must hang up her black dress
and pray that tomorrow
will bring a little more comfort.

But for now
it is too dark to see anything
and I must wait to smell the scent of desire
as he returns from the hunt--
his hot breath touching my face
like uncontrollable kindness.

Love Letters

Trace the shape of a heart
absently on the edge of a page
and you will know
the inheritance of my losses—
the secret places in a drawer
discovered by the dead
who dream of the stage
where life was sweet
and the silver screen magic
is strangely spoken
in French.

My pen traces
the letters of the words
I can not say
but that go on forever
in the landscape of forgiveness—
in the house of the mind
that is now the only dwelling
in the kingdom of ordinary time.

What story will I tell
in this Book of Names—
this chronicle of wanting more
when everything else
falls away?

I can’t help but compose
a small love song,
forming the round droplets of notes,
waiting at the edges of my lashes—
waiting for the sure light
of morning to find the paper
and the courage to leave my mark.

The Edge of Each White Petal

I curl around myself tonight,
arms cradle knees tucked to chest,
and hold tight
as dusk falls all around
like the gift of the last sacred
days of spring.

Comfort is somewhere
in the unfolding of the tiny wings
of maple leaves,
yellow-green with red veins throbbing
in this new heat just outside the place
I hope to finally sleep.

I can’t ignore this last mistake. . .
This place of solitude
violated as if it were an open door
left wide and welcome to any stranger.
I was sure I had locked it,
patted the place in my pocket
where the key was secure,
but the skeleton of that body dropped
to the earth and was lost
only to be found by the sorrow
of the universe I wanted
to leave behind.

The voice of my lover
tried to find me here—
searching the lonely hours
with a lantern just at the shore
of this bruised darkness,
but the sound of that music
was lost in the branches
where the wind always has her way
and will not share her jealous grip on fear
that holds the past whispering anger’s hot breath
in my ear.

Why not weep then
curled like a shell
on the back of a cold snail
crossing the garden at midnight?

Why not weep
for the moon
to delivery me
out of the water
like a lily
who will not bloom again
for another thousand years?

At least here
Love will find me
and gasp, smiling
with honest delight,
unclouded by his doubt—
Faith shining at the edge
of each white petal.

Directions

On the map of this exact body
locate your skilled fingers
at the place where my pulse
rises and falls—
slide south
to the hard V of bone that stops
hollow and delicate as butterfly wings,
where the flutter of the breezes
of one life travels in waking
and in sleep—
neon light vacant veins and blue
with twilight.

Here it is easy to feel
the trembling, nervous shifting
like the pendulum of an old clock
gears wound tightly
keeping some sort of time.

Here it would be easy
to rest your palm
or your tired head
above the rapidly advancing
momentum of my heart.
However, if you collapse here instead—
lose your nerve to go on—
I’ll understand.

I’ll offer you solace
on the nearby softness of my belly.
She has been the safe haven before—
the place where children grew undetected
and in the safe shadows of sleeping.
You can hide here too
if you need that relief
from the world
and all that searching.

But if you are brave
and hungry as a warrior
you may kiss the skin
on the roundness of my hip--
trace the flesh
as she sweetens
moist as morning
and opens her abundance
to all you have to offer a queen.

Red ruby glistens
with so much strength
and immediate welcome
to this royal place
on the road
so many others
have long forgotten.

Turn left where all other days
you turn right.
Smooth your hand
on the place worn and curved
like the stone basin
of an imaginary waterfall
now dry in the season
where no flood will bring relief
to unrelenting drought.

Place your feet carefully
on each stone
as you pull yourself
into the shallows.

The wonder
of reward is almost enough
to bring a smile to the lips
of a weary traveler
at the end of the hidden
paths forgiven for their troubles,
quiet as first light.