A Poem for Us

If we were neighbors,
I would walk over this morning
and ask you to read this aloud to me.

I would likely bring my steaming cup,
milky and sweet,
to keep my hands warm against the frost
and to keep my focus
on the words of the poet,
my teacher, open.

What gratitude I have for you, Dear Friend.
You love the mysterious way our dreams are woven,
something out of almost nothing,
ideas bumping into everything.

Between us and the imagined twilight,
suddenly the world is all poem.

Thanksgiving Eve

On the night before Thanksgiving
my heart flies open
so grateful for the moonlit ways
love is all around me,
in me.

On the night before Thanksgiving
I turn up Purple Rain
and dance in my kitchen
while I blend pumpkin
with ginger, fresh eggs,
and milk from a can.

How did I learn to make crust
flakes with unsalted butter and unbleached white flour
when I wipe my hands on my apron
like all my aunts and my mother
who only used the luxury of Crisco?

The turkey is in the brine
for the meat eaters. The beans
and Brussels sprouts will be roasted with extra virgin
before the potatoes are mashed and whipped
and we always admire the view of the table
lit with candles.

On this night before Thanksgiving
my sons have scattered with all the ways time
disappears. My daughter will arrive under the cover of dark
with her sweet lover. I am lost in the undertow of grief
and can't catch my breath. Perhaps the bread will save me.

And, as if it isn't enough,
this may be the last eve for my father
as he catches all the breath
that has been given to him. Thanks be.
Thanks be given.

What a feast we will have.
What a feast.
What?

Hold my hand tonight.
It is the only prayer I can remember.

Expand Love

Gracious mother of all hearts
I have come to this chamber
seeing aromatic peace,
incense that wraps her love
in quietude. Words will not change
the vicious scraping of the strings
with a dry bow.

The orchestra is without a chaplain again
and I am carving the insides of my memory
like I am some sort of chaplain
sitting with the bruises and the bites
of truth and wonder if you will wash me away
with a new song.

My Holy Mother
who witnesses the learning
that comes from death.

We are forgiven.
We expand love
with every moment.

The Fifth

On most days

I was content to be silent,

the observer,

as if it might be possible

to play the keeper of time,

capturing small particles of delicate exchanges

in a glass jar filled with the light of mothy memory.



At the edge of the open flame of the last days of caring,

the color of your lips came together,

your remarks clipped,

about needing something soft from me again,



the words I never noticed are unhinged,

fish bones in my throat

until they tumble

and crash into dozens of shards,

needles of glass exploding on impact.



My hand rocketed to cover

the damage done

and I could not take back all the ways

each syllable stood naked with meaning

like sour milk dreaming.

curdled abruptly

between us.

There was no way to ignore lump of truth

that could have been love

had I kept my mind in the darkness

waiting for the moment of recognition

to pass.

Hunger

It creeps up on me
this emptied lack of life,
nourishment of the morning and midday
gone.

It wasn't much to start with
and now my belly is empty,
alone and groaning through a long night
like a tired old dog waiting
for anyone to come home.

My pockets are empty.
My head has forgotten
the last time I whistled.
My heart hits these ribs
like a prisoner clanging
the last tin cup
that was ever
made.

Exhale

Exhale and watch as this crown melts,
dripping down to the dusty place of wisdom
like tears of gratitude
for all that has been given.

The moon is the mother
who always smiles,
blesses us so gently with her cool hand
on the most fevered brow.

Anger and betrayal
have no place where this knowing
nods and forgives
gathering us into the arms
of all time.

We all eventually learn to glow in the night,
stars landing in the middle
of the universe we have become.

When I learn to let go
I see everything.
Everything.
Every
thing.

Calling

When I am still as I am in this moment
I can hear the urgent grasping of the copper leaves
when the heat of summer holds tightly to a small clammy hand
and the eventual crystals of winter have not yet gathered at the feet of all the oaks.
The crisp bodies rattle together, so familiar with the dimming light.

When the rains of some tropical place tumble in
as an unexpected guest,
interrupting the frost with floods,
breaking the connections of our voices
like birds lost in migration,
I dream of my father and his fragile bones
fighting to stay above ground.

He calls me in the morning to ask me about the skies
and my sons until he can’t hear me and hands the phone back
to my mother. I panic like I did
before 8 a.m. thirty years ago when the rates were lowest
and he called just to see if I was in my room next to the ringer.

His voice so certain I would answer.

It is the same way he soaked the cast off his arm
the day I was born
so he could hold me softly without tears,
without needing to keep anything from me.

His word was that good.

With each syllable of an idea
he whispers little handfuls of life’s stories,
clings with all his strength to the swaying shadows
before he drops away from the tree
calling out with the last breath
toward all the heaven he could ever imagine.