Tendrils

Tendrils of the world
curl at my neck,
gently tightening their hold
like something beautiful
and green as morning glories
ready to burst into blossom
or explode into a fiery rage
with smoke twisting
into the cracks
of a door jam,
delighted to damage
the illusion of safety
with one mighty puff.

Inhale with hope or confidence
only to collapse as pink as a lung
on the death of letting go
unsure of where the next meal of pure air
might come from.

There is no mother touch
on my locks
after these cold rains.
No comb to separate tangles,
straightening the mess
into neat rows
so that I might transform overnight
into the beautiful one
everyone wants.

Instead, I ache,
tossed about
and snarled,
ready to shave
the attachments off at the roots
and wait to see
what might grow back from the sharp stubble
when there is really nothing left
to lose—

The Belly Remembers

After the banging pain
of the secret language of the body,
after years of studying
other people’s neediness—
putting my own voice
often at the back of the line,

it occurs to me
that any normal heart,
even with delayed reactions
and stunted growth,
can become drunk
with light.

It might be like going to the punch bowl
too many times, fetching happiness
for someone else
and without even noticing
in the dancing through the crowds
of merrymakers and observing
other wiser women from the corners
where wallflowers bloom

I am not living in the house
where a slow death is certain,
but instead intoxicated with eyes open,
with the belly warm and full
and remembering
these tremors,
this convulsing quake
is unexpected joy,

laughter in remembering
exactly who I am.

Civil Twilight

At the blue hour,
at the union where night and day
have come together in exquisite love
to bow humbly
to the light that generates
at the edges of the ocean,

I have traveled
across the distances
of belief and healing
to witness the offerings
of bride to groom.

She washes his feet.
He gathers the gentle face
into his hands;
kisses eyes,
cheek,
and the full and pink
lips of the beloved

just before she bursts
into morning.

Bear Cave Dreaming

The fall nights
have begun to curl
around my body
in bear cave dreaming.

The thick fur and comfort of these skins
breathe softly at the back of my neck,
spooning into the small of my aching back,
washing away the drought and the heat of summer
with the slow, gentle rains
of unconditional love.

On flickering days like these
we absorb the nourishment
of moss and acorns,
pine and granite,
and the encouragement of geese
calling in the highest blue.

The days shorten as we turn again
into the constant change,
eclipsed unexpectedly by the rejection
of the sweet abundance of the sun,
heading south to be buried
deep inside the earth.

It is no wonder
the heat of our awake
and glowing fires
have come to the stone womb
in order to gather the necessary strength
for the long sleeps that bring freedom

found in the humming silences
of the mother
living in the dividing cells
of our marrow--

in the multiplication of love
we open our eyes and see
shining clusters of truth
in the smiling face,
at the upturned corners of the mouth
of the most beloved--

in the divine yawning that signals
this launching into the endless flight of slumber
we notice our slowing breath
and gaze with joy at the weightlessness
of moment after moment
of release.

For Joy

Remind me to breathe
next time you look me in the eye,
your soul swirling
in the delicate glass
of my body.

The fragrance of your voice
remains as memory—
the slow notes of jazz piano
needing tuning—
sweet as you hold me close
dancing in the kitchen
while preparing buttered toast
with apricot jam
for late breakfast

and then back to bed
again for loving the light
in the softest folds of skin
at the spaces between fingers
and on the grand desert
of my belly marked again
by the violence
of healing.

Hold me in your arms
and remind me
to take the cool air
of this fall evening
into my marrow
and I will bow
to the sacred blessings
left wanting in the dust
that collects
at your imperfect feet.

Remembering my goodness
is as simple
and brilliant
as opening my heart
to listen to the silent movement
of the kindness of giving up
everything

for only this joy.

I Like it When it is Quiet
after Pablo Neuruda

I like it when it is it is quiet
as the break of early morning
and the dream of you
is still warm on my lips,
your fingerprints
still smell sweet
on the wounds in my side.
It sounds like nothing
as I scan this body for life
and emerge as though I was a visitor
or a solitary butterfly landing
on a single, dewy blossom.
This silence is so close
I am almost absent,
distant and painful
as flight.

The Gathering

The light is beginning to fade
at the edges of the sky
earlier and earlier
so that we might
begin to forget the longest days
gently.

The sun leaves us
with the heat of the earth
and we begin to gather
the harvest of another summer
into shadows and glass jars
like it was possible to bottle
forever.

Today you have journeyed again
to the ocean to swim with the salty waves
and play in the fountain of some other truth.
The message you send from that light, that ultimate grace,
is that you are gathering the bounty of the watery body
so that I may not go hungry.
You gather the essence of all loneliness
and fill it up with your enormous heart
and send it with blessings of abundance
to everything I have ever wanted.

What fear is there
when we share this feast?

What regret is possible
when you hold your hands out
willingly signaling a clear sky
and the path to all that is--
the fire of the gathering of good souls
who have lead the way
to the center of knowing.

I can only wrap myself in this promise of the moment
and bow to the warmth of your skin
against my skin
and know that we are awake
like the harvest
of light
into
the sea of stars.