Christopher Columbus' Mother

How can a mother prepare
for all the voyages
that the moon will take her on
when she splits her belly in two;
reaching to the ends of the heaven
for so much love?

Flat as the Earth is,
the heart hooks herself
to the west winds
and sails to some unknown place
with her son
who knows nothing
about the sea;
the womb of all creation
defying logic for swelling waves
that constantly heave and roll.

There is no map
for the place you will travel now.

This chaos of leaving
is nothing like the sleepless nights
with a boy who cried for your breast.
You were alone then
as your body ached
to heal,
abandoned and lost,
no land on the horizon,
no stars to guide you.

The rocks were so near
you could taste the iron
and feel the grit of loss
on your tongue.

When the explorer leaves you this time
with a warning that he may never come back
from the fires and flood,
you grieve in all the ways
mothers do.

All we can manage is to pray
and watch the edge of horizon
for some simple sign
that we have done enough
to bring them home
when their journey toward nothing
is done.

Before I Fly Away

When death comes to find me
I want to be ready like I am today,
aching to be like the birds
hopping in the snow
to find one small black seed at a time.

There are no words
for this gratitude
that is covered in a shell
and must be cracked open
with my wisest self;
a curious and hungry beak
waiting for communion.

If all I have to give
is the love I have been given,
it will be enough
to turn to my friends and lovers
and say “Come. Eat what is so very good.”
before I fly away.

Lament

This full-throated day

amplifies everything I’ve known,

memory swallowed and spoken

like an oath on the occasion

of all truth-telling.



I resolve to gaze directly into the eyes of sorrow,

touch the gravelly places in my chest

with the words that soothe and steady me

on the simple sand near the sea.



Look at the package as you unwrap the gifts.

The flannel shirt

and the scarf, plaid and soft synthetic,

worn next to the warmth

of a tender neck.



This treasure is meant to be gathered

to my face and inhaled.

Small particles of love,

solemn and steadfast as any hand

pledging allegiance,

hover around my heart.



I open my mouth to speak,

expecting vibrato; a lament.

Instead, the sound of needles rattling

at the end of cold branches,

unlikely clicks of rain against the window,

and the death rattle of tall prairie grasses

tumble from my lips

like the last breath from the body.

Getting Ready to Turn 53

They stopped me all week,

asked me how I would celebrate another year.

I breathe into the idea of 53.



I always like my birthday, at the end of February,

not a leap year, and far enough away from Christmas

not to ruin that holiday, close enough to spring

to have something to look forward to as mud season

takes over.



As a child, the winter thaw cancelled skating parties,

even in Minnesota. There was no smooth gliding

over frozen surfaces of water.

Never the end of winter, but warm enough

to survive until the flowers arrived and the early green flowed

into the leaves. Birthday bowling or sleep overs with the girls.

Pink frosting on Angel Food. Candles and the story of my birth

before singing the song.



This year will be the most different I’ve ever been

with my father gone from his body and traveling free

with the crows and the dreams of all the ways

he has shown up for me. This year will be different

without the call from my champion before 8 a.m. to sing the song

and to tell me about soaking the cast off his arm

after driving on bumpy roads through the jungle

to hurry my arrival. The VW with the wicker basket

behind the seat for the baby. The trip to the nursery

looking for the white baby among the sea of brown

only to find me protected by the nurses.



This year will be different

with my heart space left

unprotected and open

to everything.

From the Ashes

In these days after death reminds me of who I am,
I touch the wounds I carry on my skin,
in my belly, all around my heart,
marveling at the raised edges
and the marks that do not diminish me
but, rather, bring me strength.
 
In the northern places
sacred ground is frozen,
waiting quietly for now,
for spring to open up
so that I might return
the remains of love
into the Earth’s aching chest.
 
If I am not awake in this waiting,
water might swallow me up
like so many stormy days
stuck behind this lifetime of sorrow.
 
But my eyes are not closed
as I gather the clever kindling I will need
while I hold the light of this flame to the tinder
and gently blow on the shavings of magnificent oak
that will become a radiant fire,
and then nothing
but remains
that look just like anyone else
and ashes.

Forgetting Myself

Before dawn I rest quiet hands on my hips,

look out at the field into the shimmering morning

and wait for the warmth of the light

like I do every day.



This body wakes to the radiant invitation,

like a lover waiting to take me

onto the dance floor

and play with the music;

forgetting myself in the movement.



The birds, delighted

slip from the sky

onto branches,

to the feeder,

and back to the sky

with all the magic

God has given them.



It is impossible not to open my voice

and sing along with the wind

that carries these feathered sisters

from their nests and their babies

long enough to nourish their souls

with flight and water.



Prayers have lifted from all our hearts

as simply as spreading the holy wings

of angels who teach us to fly.

The Night of the Ravens

The night the ravens came
the moon was blue


and the snow glowed under us;
the Earth and her crystals bright
were all magic.

The field of light across the way
swelled with the clicks and caws
of that flighty darkness,
rose and fell,
just like every stormy ocean will do.

Hundreds of feathery spirits had come
to announce the news
that love is stronger than any death
and that the messenger is always present
in the sound of wings.