Mystical Horizon

I have never seen the moon
cut the shape of a sideways glance
stare orange at the end of the day
but there she was calling to my deepest dreaming
where cats and birds dance and fly away from each other.

There she was
with the smell of smoke
on her dressing gown.

There she was,
a piece of ripe melon
in the mouth of my lover
just waiting for him to bite down
on all that musky juice
and swallow.

Once in a lifetime
we are given a gift like this
and we must call for angels to witness—
to join us –
to gasp and linger on the edge
of the unmade bed.

The blessed ones know the signs of leaving
when they see them and they travel
to the watery sky with their eyes open
and smile to know when grace is noticed
and heeded and followed.

I let myself break down here
like a widow alone for the first night of forever
and the memory of the night before the wedding.

It is here I will wait
for the wounds to heal
into scars and the shape of my radiance
to return to the mystical horizon.

Paradise

In this summer,
in this garden of the last days,
in the place where I can only dream of the dead
and the ways they traveled to their graves
through particles of God and blood—
I am weary of the smell of the sweetness
at the bottom of the glass and the residue
of what love has become.

In the play I love the most
Adam and Eve become fire and water
and dance almost boiling near the flames.
When she decides to finally leave the garden,
divorce herself from something less than paradise,
before there is nothing left of her shimmering self
nearest her beloved,
she falls first as tears,
then as rain,
and collects herself happily
in the shallows of the purest lake.

In the end Adam
swims at these shores
with Eve on his skin every day
and never knowing she was there
to make this quiet peace
with a love that cannot be controlled.

On the last day
she is transformed
into the woman she must be
and is consumed by the sun.

The Swim

Dip the toes
to test the softness
of Silver Lake,
cool and smooth
like the inside of dreaming.

It is water the temperature of summer
and the touch surrounds me
with the two minds
of fear and longing.

How does a woman dive in
when she has always walked slowly—
each inch of submersion
carefully calculated
and felt fully
as the liquid of drowning
crawls up her skin?

Feet first—
totally shocking and numbing cold
encasing the calves and thighs,
the roundness of the middle,
arms dangling and flirting
until the point of no return
forces a plunge into the chest
and shoulders—
the gasp of release and movement,
the dance to stay afloat
to demonstrage the buoyancy
of flesh and blood
and breath.

The water tastes like wine
and sooths the skin
like iced whiskey
until I am drunk
and want to swim forever in this place
that is so much about the body
that the soul cries
for the gift of a thousand lives
just like this one. . .
here, .alone. . .quiet.

Stroke the water like an old lover.
Push the body toward shore,
caressing the effort,
just to emerge,
to die in the warmth of the sun
and be born to the suffering of water
again and again.

Tomorrow, at the dawn of the new day,
the air will be too cool for July.
I will pull the sheets away from my sleeping self
and climb down the hill toward the ancient lake
to plunge naked and clean again into the light.

If the sky opens and takes me then
it will be enough
to just go.

Forgetting My Name

On mornings in July
when the wind whispers
cool on my skin
I give myself permission
to forget my name.

What good is a name—
first or last—
when a body
and a heart full of words
is enough to identify
the soul’s place
in the spaces between
the petals of flowers
or planted firmly in the sun
with the lapping of waves
hungry at the shore
of some small ocean
of unspoken sound?
There are no mountain meadows here
or inconvenient reversals of roles
between mothers
and the naming of children
who cannot survive.

Instead, let me remember
that there once was a man
who knew my real name
and he called to me
with the clear voice of birds
before light and morning—
before the waking of the world.

I have spent so many sunrises
trying to find his face
in the depths of the dark forests
but I am always left alone to listen
and to forget my name
again and again.

For now call me flesh.
Call me blood
thick with human scent.
Touch the letters of my lips
and the outline of my eyes.
Examine each curved toe
for evidence of my rich female heritage
and the sound of my name
forgotten over and over again
in every language on Earth.

You will know nothing of me
unless you listen to the doves
at dawn.

The Light That Fills The Ocean

Your light fills the ocean
where I live. –Rumi

Whether we give ourselves or not
there is no compromise
in the rising tide
that defends the nature
of the stolen soul.

The handful of daisies plucked
from the edge of the neighbor’s field
does not wilt knowing they will never
see the sun again.

The falling star does not stall
to watch the flicker of fireflies
or wait for the delayed wish
of the woman unsure of how much
she can afford to give away to the night.

Walk the shores hopefully
and cast your body onto the rocks
at risk of losing the life you are living
if it might yield one night of pleasure.
If we give ourselves, or not,
the heart will never forgive
for the opportunity lost
to invite happiness, the most weary guest,
into the light of the warm hearth and give her a place to rest
until she can move on with new strength
toward the heavy doors of eternity.

From this place of salty mist
and sand between your toes
breathe deeply
have courage
and make space
for the ocean of light
that is about to arrive
as the tide is commanded to do.

Running for Cover

Green umbrellas
graze snap dragons and petunias
just passing under the eaves of this shower.

Don’t lecture us on the virtues of water
falling day after day until we are weary
of traveling to the well.
We are flooded with gratitude
for the luxurious green of our dreaming—
held boldly against the great grey
that haunts all our waking
like the common chores
of any servant tasked to survive.

We do not worry about thirst
or other suffering here.
The body is saturated,
if not satisfied,
by this over flowing
of the gods and the cumulous clouds
concealing the heavens
somewhere above.

Open the ribs of this shelter
and protect us from the deluge
while we walk timidly and pray
for the light and relief to arrive
abruptly as the flash of cracking thunder
on her hurried way home—
running for any kind of cover.

What The Body Knows Before Thought

This poem.
This lump in my throat.
This love that has nowhere to go
trickles through the cracks of walls
thick with moss
along corridors and forgotten paths--
between the sweating
cold granite of pain.

I wander here
lost in syllables
and the tone of voice
owned by disappointment,
disagreement, and the purple hood
of shame.

What can these words say out loud
that haven’t been repeated
in the creases of the brain
and in so many other poems
like me?

It does no good to think
when the muscles that run
from skull to hip
ache with knowledge
that does not yield to rationalization
or even the romantic notion
of survival.

Breathe into the cadence of this war
slipped like a sliver under the skin of the page
and the rhythm will draw out the infection
and the fever heat of truth. . .
the illness trapped in the blood,
the script to be read at the funeral.