Light Escapes Us

Is it too much to simply decompress
as these days of summer bleed
from my chilly skin,

a gentle lancing of the hot
raised places that will not heal?

Is it not enough to malinger
when it is indisputable
that the light escapes us
with each leaf that falls
and mildew begins to repossess
the cells of that new body?

It is grief that has taken my hand again
and asks me to walk slowly
on a lane near heart's abandoned home,
marveling with each step
at all these beautiful losses.

Calling

The phone crackles and groans with electrical impulses
as if to lecture to me about all the ways I have failed.

I extract a few words from this nocturnal swirl
and listen to my breath whisper comfort.

The sound of my voice is a lament

long clear tones of a bell

Each gong

a calling

to the love

of silence.

Drawbridge

Today, as it happens again,
I imagine pulling up the drawbridge

to hold out the world,

to hold the machinery of the days
where anger boils
and cravings for more
infest souls.

I want none of this deluge of pain
in my castle
where peace must be won
by bravely holding the line
against discontentment
and fear.

I have wrought the protection I need
and have only my heart as careful watchman
to keep the walls safe.

Constant and faithful caretaker,
be awake, be alert,

draw us close.

For My Son on His Nineteenth Birthday

Three days of labor
and the thimble of hope
was pleasant in the mind of a mother
who wanted to believe that brave counted.

Three days in labor and the fledgling in my belly
took the yoke of my hope and burned with each wave,
with illumination and brawn
we fought to bring you into the light,
determined to see each other
just as we were. . .
bloody and bold;
completely human.

Three days and the truth
was settled in the eyes of the hand maidens.

Midwives.

Three days and exhausted,
I panted in pain,
Jesus knew me
with each breath.

Jesus knew me.

Jesus knew.

Three days in my arms,
unreal and sweet breath of death's expiration,
Three days of putting you in the plastic nest
like a cowbird stealing someone else's space
in the warmth of the breast.
Three days waiting
for the path to open while your father said
"Put him down. It will only encourage him, warm him."

Three days of birth
and death
and the reminder
of a life resurrected.

And now, on the day of this son's death
I am middling fair. I am insignificant.
I am unneeded. I am undone.

Jesus knows I am almost lost
in the simple thoughts of three days
of life and death.

Jesus knows I am almost lost.

Jesus knows I am.
Jesus knows.

Jesus.

The Last Night at the Ocean

We waited many long nights since February
to feel the pulse of the ocean in our truest bodies;

the energy that conquers all time
and clears the mildew and rust
of sitting still for too long.

We happily waited through the snow and constant ice of New England
to nearly burn our feet bronze on the sand on a day just like today.

The color of our skin is no longer the white of enamel.
Our shoulders might even be caramelized brown as butter and sugar
and smooth as a polished stone near this sandy shore.

Tonight, on the last night at the ocean, we begin to pack ourselves up
for the long trip back to the life of mowing grass, pulling weeds,
piles of laundry, electric bills, writing daily rhymes,
and making the bed
as if order can be gathered
in the cool comfort of sheets.

On this last night at the edge of the salty water in Saco
we listen to explosions off shore of the boardwalk
and feel the echos of the independence we feel
each time we come to rest here.

We know here, if no place else,
we are free for a little while.

Stop Waiting in Silence

The moon is nearly full
in the corral of all the sky we can see
from the small place on the shore,
our eyes starving to embark on a voyage
as concise as the sailors
who plot the points of each day
by the stars and ancient demolished suns
who lost their way
before time began in these waters.

I will plunge into the ocean anyway.
My fear is more than anyone could expect to change.
If the trembling is mixed with the waves,
perhaps we can pretend
all is not lost in the cold saltiness.

We will sing sustaining songs into the company of the darkness
and stop waiting in silence for twilight
to awaken us all.

What Could be Better?

At the blue precipice of all this morning,
light checking her passport with some minor qualms
about the ladder that must be climbed to really shine,

we verify
that all the coins
in this short day
will not be enough
to finance the glaring division
between this moment
and the darkness

engineered to quiet the mind
and soothe the magnificent
aching of the soul
at the recognition
of forever.

The truth of it all
bubbles just under the surface
of the skin of the body
so that you have stopped hoping
to return as something
better.