Eulogy on the Last Day

It is not the deer I pass nightly
on my dark way home from town
or the pink possum
or a quick brown fox.
Not the toad hopping
across my blackened path,
nor skittering mouse or mole
blinded by headlights
that was my victim.

Bright red-breasted boy,
you stood in my way,
in full sun this morning,
and I waited for you
to take the customary
last minute flight out from under
my speeding wheels,

but you did not.

Instead you stood Samurai
looking me full in the face
and let me take you
unafraid from this day
and all the rest of the days,

feathers flying away from you,
an offering to the heavens
on your wake.

The Size of a Fist

Pull the fingers
tightly into your palm
and form a boney fist
and you will see
the size and shape
of your heart
before your eyes.

Place this gathered hand
over your left breast,
simple and compact,
sturdy and ready to fight.
Throw a punch into the chest--
into of a lifetime of longing.

What gifts this small package carries
into the body each time she enters the door
blinded by human vision,
forgetting her native language,
the tough fibers
pounding the spirit
blood red—
a purple bruise
unrecognizable to her family
of lovers.

The sound is the distant thunder
of the rising storm.
The heat burns
at a constant temperature,
perfect for baking
and the gathering of delicate
yeasty flowers.
The power of endurance
is that of an African runner
making his barefooted way
across the desert.

But what treasure do we find there
balled into the corner of the ribs,
rocked by the breath,
day after long day?
What does this basket of a body
carry to the grave,
time after time daring to trust
the offering, once opened
is not lost
or empty, robbed by some unknown thief
in the dark of night,
but instead will be over flowing
with sweet honey
and jewels to be fitted
into the royal crown
of the priestess at the feast of infinity?

Here each mouth filled
with laughter—
each belly full of sweetness
and enough light
to burst open
all wisdom
and absolute beauty.

Arguing With Angels

Even as the sun opens the sky
to the brightest April blue
and brings light and warmth
to my winter weary bones,
I am arguing with angels
about happiness.

There are limits to everything it seems—
boundaries I never knew existed
in order to keep control
on laughter as it burns the ribs
and stretches each of a thousand muscles
of a face
or controlling hunger for garlic and oil
slathered over Turkish dumplings
with yogurt to smooth the edges of bitterness
and ancient rituals involving grapes and walnuts,
the earth herself added to the syrup at the end of cooking
for sweetness.

The creatures from heaven warn me
not to move too close to the edge of this love,
to stay back under cover
where I can protect myself,
hide from the truth that buzzes
like a mouth full of angry bees.

Ignore the pull of a wide-open heart
lest you drown in the rapid current
roaring on these banks like a locomotive
racing across the prairie in winter, no crossings
to stop the speeding iron force at midnight
under a crescent moon
and millions of burning stars.

Even with the counsel of these winged ones
I cannot help but tempt this fate.
Their fear will not dissuade me
from walking across the invisible lines
drawn as protective charms
against the unbearable burden
of too much love.


Even if I must drain every drop of blood from my veins
and fill these vessels with emptiness,
I will climb over this mystic mountain
of everything forbidden
to gaze into the face of God.

Spring Wind

The breezes blew strong this morning
and reminded my body of the swaying
place of discovery I miss as I place my hand
in your hand, near the pounding of your heart,
and I drop my defenses and forgive
myself for loving someone
I can’t love.

Why ask the question anymore--
to ask why love is ever wrong.
There is no answer to this question
when it is put to you and to me.
We are not at liberty to question
the chains wrapped around our hearts—
what gold and silver rings bind us.

The truth is no one has figured out
what blade will cut the slender red thread
that binds and tugs at the ribs
surrounding the place where blood
and life force pumps a river of compassion
toward the river of contentment
between you and me.

My curls battle this spring wind
crawling across my face
like vines climbing the walls
of an old New England house
empty of human understanding,
left alone to the ghosts,
lonely and breathing nothing
in the pale first light of another solitary day.

Lost

Avoid it so long—
this longing hidden
like something to be ashamed of
like the skin
always hidden
white under a strap
of a proper black bathing suit,
everything around you tan and golden
from the full exposure to the sun,
but this longing stays covered
bright white and pure
as the untouched skin of a child.
No hungry hands to defile the silent waiting.
Only the stillness of nothing
but this longing. . .
avoiding it if you can.

What do you give away to be lost
in this longing—
to disappear into the black centers
of eyes and find yourself
lost there in the dark,
terrified and consumed
by desire?

Cast your line
over and over again
into the endless ocean of no promise
that can ever be fulfilled
and be satisfied
with retrieving
each empty hook—
each easy retreat
into a new beginning.

Maybe this is what happens
as the soul starts to recognize herself
in the mirror behind the human face.
She looks deeper into the darkness for relief,
running her hands blindly
on the edge of love—
not minding the smooth blade
of the truth as it cuts deeply,
letting the blood spill,
real, onto the floor
of this empty slate.

Get lost here
swimming in the tides
of wanting,
gasping for breath
as you surface
look toward the horizon,
the rescue ship no where to be found,
no island to wash up on
as this midnight castaway.

Bitch
Waiting to Happen

My whole life
I think I’ve been waiting
to happen.

Today on the couch of the shrink
the x-ray minds of the husband and therapist
zap me with the heat of anger—radiation penetrating
to reveal my true self—

You see. . .

I am

a

Bitch.

Cold and calculating,
ready to flush fantasy
with a laugh just under my breath,
unwilling to be controlled again
by my expectations
or by anyone else’s version
of the truth.

This realization is paradise
and I am finally released
with this illumination
of extreme light,
from any obligation to men
and marriage.

Like a new nun
I want to press
my shaven head
to the cool tile
of the floor,
stone
before the altar,
and give thanks
for the life of spirit
bestowed on me
by God.

I am a bitch
waiting
to discover
the joy
of holding
nothing
back.
No hurt.
No harsh word.
No pretending
I’m something
I’m not.

Comfort Food

Don’t waste words
talking to me of love—
the menu full of too many options
and sauces I will never put into my mouth or body,
too much for me to remember
no matter how many times
you try to convince me
of these out of season specialties.

Today, take me to the garden
fresh with sunlight and the dew of the magical darkness
of the black moonless sky and her sister stars.
That is where I will run my hands
just above the warming earth
through tender leaves of lettuce
and the newly sprouting tendrils
of peas, beans, and feathery carrot tops.

There is no denial in this green place
where we feel the planet waking after her long sleep
under our feet as we walk side by side.
The life force moves up and stirs the appetite,
beyond hungry with this waiting
for the blossoms,
the budding fully in view
like the crown of the child
waiting for her birth.

Bring me the comfort food
of endless kisses and gazing into my eyes
as if there is nothing else you’d rather do
until it is time to caress the nape of my neck with your lips
and hold my hand to your heart.

There are no words
where this justice flows
between us and out of us
to where every other heart waits
or this kind of enlightenment.

We open the door
to the lusciousness of steaming pots
full of the saltiness
that unleashes
these simple pleasures—
fills us with nothing
other than home.