Forgetting My Name

On mornings in July
when the wind whispers
cool on my skin
I give myself permission
to forget my name.

What good is a name—
first or last—
when a body
and a heart full of words
is enough to identify
the soul’s place
in the spaces between
the petals of flowers
or planted firmly in the sun
with the lapping of waves
hungry at the shore
of some small ocean
of unspoken sound?
There are no mountain meadows here
or inconvenient reversals of roles
between mothers
and the naming of children
who cannot survive.

Instead, let me remember
that there once was a man
who knew my real name
and he called to me
with the clear voice of birds
before light and morning—
before the waking of the world.

I have spent so many sunrises
trying to find his face
in the depths of the dark forests
but I am always left alone to listen
and to forget my name
again and again.

For now call me flesh.
Call me blood
thick with human scent.
Touch the letters of my lips
and the outline of my eyes.
Examine each curved toe
for evidence of my rich female heritage
and the sound of my name
forgotten over and over again
in every language on Earth.

You will know nothing of me
unless you listen to the doves
at dawn.

The Light That Fills The Ocean

Your light fills the ocean
where I live. –Rumi

Whether we give ourselves or not
there is no compromise
in the rising tide
that defends the nature
of the stolen soul.

The handful of daisies plucked
from the edge of the neighbor’s field
does not wilt knowing they will never
see the sun again.

The falling star does not stall
to watch the flicker of fireflies
or wait for the delayed wish
of the woman unsure of how much
she can afford to give away to the night.

Walk the shores hopefully
and cast your body onto the rocks
at risk of losing the life you are living
if it might yield one night of pleasure.
If we give ourselves, or not,
the heart will never forgive
for the opportunity lost
to invite happiness, the most weary guest,
into the light of the warm hearth and give her a place to rest
until she can move on with new strength
toward the heavy doors of eternity.

From this place of salty mist
and sand between your toes
breathe deeply
have courage
and make space
for the ocean of light
that is about to arrive
as the tide is commanded to do.

Running for Cover

Green umbrellas
graze snap dragons and petunias
just passing under the eaves of this shower.

Don’t lecture us on the virtues of water
falling day after day until we are weary
of traveling to the well.
We are flooded with gratitude
for the luxurious green of our dreaming—
held boldly against the great grey
that haunts all our waking
like the common chores
of any servant tasked to survive.

We do not worry about thirst
or other suffering here.
The body is saturated,
if not satisfied,
by this over flowing
of the gods and the cumulous clouds
concealing the heavens
somewhere above.

Open the ribs of this shelter
and protect us from the deluge
while we walk timidly and pray
for the light and relief to arrive
abruptly as the flash of cracking thunder
on her hurried way home—
running for any kind of cover.

What The Body Knows Before Thought

This poem.
This lump in my throat.
This love that has nowhere to go
trickles through the cracks of walls
thick with moss
along corridors and forgotten paths--
between the sweating
cold granite of pain.

I wander here
lost in syllables
and the tone of voice
owned by disappointment,
disagreement, and the purple hood
of shame.

What can these words say out loud
that haven’t been repeated
in the creases of the brain
and in so many other poems
like me?

It does no good to think
when the muscles that run
from skull to hip
ache with knowledge
that does not yield to rationalization
or even the romantic notion
of survival.

Breathe into the cadence of this war
slipped like a sliver under the skin of the page
and the rhythm will draw out the infection
and the fever heat of truth. . .
the illness trapped in the blood,
the script to be read at the funeral.

Light Torn in the Night Sky

I’ve started to worry
in the hours that blur
from one to another
after midnight and before
the birds at dawn.

Not my style to disrupt sleep over nothing,
but somehow I have a contract with the silence
to stand guard and wait for the announcement of morning
or the blinking out of the light torn in the night sky.

It doesn’t seem to matter
that my mind is quiet
and not particularly urgent
to talk

but my skin
has begun to sing
loudly to a lover
who will have me
no longer
and I am not embarrassed
to admit I don’t mind staying behind
to watch her find her way
to that country she has not visited
in years.

The inland sea is so beautiful here.
The fault lines rumble gently in the distance
like a train heading north.

Perhaps if I am patient
I might even see her smile
or watch her rest her eyes in the pleasure
of slumber after sunrise.

Thinking of You as I Weed Between the Peas and Beans

My fingers sink into the earth
like the beaks of hungry birds
plunging after the smooth sound
of worms escaping at midnight.

The peas curl their green tendrils around bamboo stakes
and the beans multiply their leaves by twos each day the sun returns
to remind them they are loved.

I touch them too—
gentle as I pull the undesirable distractions
that remove my resolve from between these new shoots
and instead must encourage the universe to expand to feed us like we are beggars—
our bowls empty as we pray for any small scraps that will fill us
with the light of the stars and the vibrations that pass between the cells
of every living being.

My belly longs for August
and the harvest that is promised me
if I focus on these small wonders,
breathe for these potent dreams
until they emerge strong
and ready to flower--
until they offer their fruit
abundant and full of summer and grace.

Until that warm time
I must be patient and content in my solitary place
near the satisfaction of dirt
and life in my hands.

At Dawn

Early morning light
be gentle as you touch my face,
wake me with a whisper
like a lover who dares not disturb
the peace of the night.

The night has been harsh
and peace was not present
in the breath that entered
that dark place
between the moon and her stars.

If only the moon could protect me
in the fullness of her gentle face
and the stars could whisper the way to freedom
I would make my path with no fear
to morning.

Lover be gentle light as you make your way
to touch my face.
Wake the freedom of love with no fear
with a whisper of peace in the night.
Your breath calls the moon and stars to bless us.