So That I Will Not Fly Away

In the covenant of confession
it is my duty to be honest;

to undress my thoughts like a new bride
and stand with my emotional skin
innocent and bare to the truth.

Take this cup of new wine, Love,
for my hands are trembling.

The night shines
heavy with the moon
and I must embrace the body again
so that I will not fly away.

In the Arms of Courage

After waking,

after the night
when all the stars shook
wondering if they might be next to fall,
shattered into pieces of the sky,
plummeting out of control
to the soil under our feet,

I cannot help but weep.

I am almost human again

knowing I could stand
like a sailor on this celestial sea

without leaving the ground.

It has been many years
since I cast off from the safe harbor,
opened my sails to glide
into these unknown waters
trying to map my course
toward untangled love

and birds who breathe softly
in the nest of my hands.

My eyes walk like strangers
into the heavens looking for traces of angels
in the flashes left by meteors,
the temporary lighthouses

where laughter balanced lightly
on stones stacked by God.

Words are not enough

after the galaxy has been my lover

and my blood believes in eternity
plucked moment by moment
from the tree of life.

I am more certain now than ever
that I will be healed

in the arms of courage

as he leans in
to kiss my third eye.

Leonid Love Song to an Imperfect Lover

Somehow I knew the heavens
had drawn themselves closer
even before I stepped out into the darkness
beyond my kitchen door and into the trees.

My path has taken me, again,
into the abundant fruit of the orchards
that hang heavy, desperate with sin,
and ready to be harvested
like a heart ripe with too much
unexplained love.

I do not take the warning
of stars falling from the sky
without notice
and cannot ignore the call
to gather myself, flesh and bone,
for the redemption
and what it means
to be washed in the light
of Leonid.

If you meet me by these waters, Lover,
hold my holy hands and speak in a whisper
until the vessel of your heart
is an empty container of faith,
all will be forgiven for our imperfections.

All will be forgiven
as we cast a glimmering net of hope
into the promise
of another broken dawn.

Treeline

Scan the edges
of the forest
with eyes that have seen
what cannot be seen;
the places where stone walls
once stood exposed as prey.

Here the hawk is always ready
to sink talons deeply
into the fleshy parts of the body
before gliding away.

I am not a hunter in November’s light at dawn.
Nor do I stand at the edge of these fields waiting
for the doe to step from her hiding place
so that I might take her
with the force of a weapon--
knock her down from her upright grace,
spill her heart and liver
onto the cold, wet ground
for the pleasure
of placing her warm flesh
in my mouth.

I am not innocent.
I too, have sinned,
but it is not in my nature
to want that much power
over God.

I know my place is within
the treeline, invisible
to those who want too much,
with my nose to the wind,
and my ear turned to the sounds
of life and death.

History of the Heart

Falling deeply
into the history of the heart
I find the dark door
of the forbidden city
where I used to live.

Heat rises up
from a hidden place
in this body
as I consider
the way your face
relaxes and your eyes
land gently on my mouth.

You want nothing more
than to touch this place
with your lips
like it was the first time,
like it is the only chance you have
to tell me about the last time
you loved the soul hiding
inside this new body.

Simple gesture.
Pull your chair
close to me, in front of me
so our knees touch,
so you can pull me close
and kiss me sweetly.

The keys clatter
in my silent hands
as I disappear
like ashes scattered
into the open prairie
after the wildfire
cleansed the earth.

I am breathless
and glowing like a full moon night
illuminating the trees
as if it were midday.

The river sparkles
on the edge of this constant longing
for a time when there will be no secrets,
straw turned to gold by one right touch
that becomes the feast of flesh
and you will find me dancing
in the center of my life.

Until that day of celebration
I’ll slumber underground
like the face of a yellow daffodil
waiting for the voice of spring
to call out her greeting,
sweeping the steps of sin
and all signs of that other death.

A Poem on the Evening Train to Milano

Outline the darkness of a city
on the evening train to Milano
with brushes of night
before we travel into the nothingness
of another half moon.

Lines cross this sky with electricity
and information that could explain so many things,
but we have slowed
and we must stop in Reggio Emilia
and wait for some travelers to depart
and others who will join us on the ride.

If only I could speak
the language of these people
perhaps they would understand
what I have done
and what I must do
to shed my skin
and make my way
to a another place
I’ll call my home.

The clock shows how quickly
a life must leave us—
one cell, one second at a time—

before we know it the train arrives and passes on
to another destination with nothing more
than love exchanged between us.

The truth is,
I am not the woman
I was when you met me
nor are you the man
I wanted to make love to last night.
I am not the woman
you will glance up from your book
to smile at absently.
I will never be that good wife again.

These strangers in this strange and beautiful place
see me so deeply under their sleeping eyes,
lulled by the rocking of the train over the tracks
through the invisible countryside.
I take comfort in knowing
it is in the not knowing
that I will find a reflection of myself
in this window streaming with rain
and the cleansing that comes
with a long journey to the west.

Pointing North

The day I started to go crazy
I thought an earthquake
was starting in my feet
and trembled her way into my mouth
like bees and electricity.

Soon after I thought I was sprouting wings
with feathers that sparkled and grew stronger
as I saw the light turn purple
when I closed my eyes.

When I was a girl
I admired the danger
and strong beauty of tigers
as they moved in the jungle
of my mind. The mask that hides courage
has turned strength into ugly plastic
that cannot possibly be loved
by any imagination
but of those who are dead.

Now I sit with bandages on my wounds
and bleed all emotion into the flood
of my former self.

I can only travel these lonely,
back roads of despair in silence.
If I stop to look at the gold coins of nature
gathering at my ankles
I am sure the statue of dust I am becoming
will disappear with the next breath
of cold November wind.

The ghosts of lovers and their mothers
will try to collect the tiny pieces that were me
to explain the sacred abandon of space
as if I were a fallen star.
It will not matter.

I am lost
no matter
which way I turn
and it does not help
to admit
that the compass
disguised as a heart,
was shattered
when I took possession
of this body—
before I even knew
how to point
north.