Flying White

If you want to know
something about this woman,
look into the foggy design
on the edges of paper,
imagine what no longer exists
of the light that was once
a brilliant star,
and you will understand
the empty spaces
that fill me now.

Near the ocean
I walk long against the wind
gathering the bodies of broken shells
who rest in the tentacles of the water’s garden
harvested by so much winter anger.

These corpses cast shadows
of negative space on the gestures
I make with my heart
to see more clearly
as I leave comfort
for the cold truth
to find gulls hovering over waves,
glide as if suspended, searching
never finding the flashing silver
scales of trust.

From this shore
the details of flight
are simple, white
and unpainted as the sky
before the arrival
of the rosy hand of dawn,
confusing the scene
with color.

Awake

Awake and too aware
of your arm draped over my body

as if claiming territory
for yourself.

I nearly crawl
our of my skin

waiting to escape
from this falling

this bottom dropping out
from under everything
I hadn’t already lost.

I slip away smoothly
from your sleeping

into the cool darkness
toward another bed

where anonymous pillows become comfort
I wedge into the length of my back,

under my delicate neck,
and between my arms;

my lonely knees.

Here, in my healing pose,
I am learning to fly solo.

Learning to spread
my clipped wings.

Writing Naked

In the early mornings of 5 a.m.
the light is barely there
behind the branches of the maple
between the darkness and everything,
and I can’t help but notice my breath
and the girl hurt that circulates in my blood
just to prove I am alive.

In this light,
in this body,
I write naked
in only my skin
and fragile bones,
imagining the earth
without you,
noting the circles of my words
and the roundness of my breasts
as they brush the edges of the page.

Here the possibilities of existence
and the attraction of belly pressed to belly,
hip locked to hip,
face daring to face
eye to exacting eye
are all that I can practice.

Heaven is the place
where lovers in a second hand life
make meaning out of flesh
and a few words
are carefully chosen
for these moments
of heated enlightenment.

Tell me your stories
of the most unusual names for God
and I will tell you the chronicle
of the land without sleeping.

Remember out loud with me
the melting of your frozen childhood
and the times you nearly died in the mud
and I will brush your lips with the danger
of my trembling fingers.

Walk with me along silent beaches
and stroke my cheek with kindness
and I will leave the pen and paper
I’ve gathered in these empty and exposed cells
like a butterfly emerging from her broken chrysalis
to trace my love for you
into the inky paths
that stretch over the canvas
of your soul.

Shakespeare’s Sickbed

Miserable and trying to find a Zen moment
of acceptance in another sick day
at the end of winter.

My throat and ear rage with full colonies of bacteria,
fighting in the hot stream of my blood,
when I spy Shakespeare’s sideways glance
cajoling me into my words,
away from the battlefields
of this miniature war
and suffering.

His eyes follow me from his place
in the collage on the wall
near gardens, bright visions of ancient cities,
and simple hellos.

My friend does not judge,
but offers thanksgiving and advice
to read and write in the quiet of the morning
while the body designs exits
and dares to disturb the universe.

Spirits of other poets circle my bed now
smiling as I await redemption
in these lines.

For who is to know
what inspiration came to Shakespeare
in his simple longing
and in his lonely sickbed?

Owl Song

It is suddenly March
and the sun has come,
creeping back in the direction
of my windows
so that the geranium I saved
from the outdoor place
of frost before winter
has cast out hope
in the form of red
brilliant blossoms
and new shoots
of green smiles
and their undeniable life.

Last night
at this same window
the lonely sound of owl song
came to find me
in the unexpected splendor
of alone.

Who would have predicted
I'd prefer solitude calling from branches
of tall pine to the hungry arms
of expectation?

Who would have known
that a few tender words
and stolen kisses of light
would fill me with the echos
of night birds
calling to their lovers
before the feasting of the shadows
nearest the heart?

Tonight I will sit quietly again
as the sun sets to the magic blue
of spring melting snow
and practice waiting
for nothing
near the red of another years' flowers

and the haunting silent flight
toward the question
of so much grateful love.

The Galaxy of Faith

Under the surface of my skin,
somewhere in the smallest muscles
of my body,
I am always preparing
for happiness.

At the cellular level
of this inner galaxy of faith
flesh is filled to drunkenness
with joy.

The ship readies herself
to set sail
past the danger
of mythology
and charts her course
toward the center of all truth,

where islands of peace float on calm seas,
kindness is ripe with abundance,
and angels
hover close
with the song of God
on their breath.

Giving Up The Night

Raven clatters against the window at sunset
announcing the darkness
that comes with the leaving
of the light.

The lattice of lace
can’t stop the bristle
at the back of my neck
where I hold the thought of sleep
as a memory ground finely
into the stars that become
the flashes of Aurora Borealis,

illuminating the calendar
that would like to beckon spring
but has lost the words
for those younger parts of the body
that can make love
and simply regenerate themselves
into something whole,
something absolutely new.

Why then, am I bargaining with a song
I don’t know anymore
and holding the tattered wings of a monarch
who was too weak to fly over the mountains?

Perhaps it is time
to give up the night—
let the windows fly open
and allow all the ghosts
and chance to come closer,
to take their places
next to me in my single bed,

let the ocean
that could be love
wash over me
and plant pearls
along the chord of my spine
where I’ve learned to stretch
into the shell of myself,

give up the night
and the time it takes
to close my eyes
and instead descend
into the ebony wind.