The Karma of Sardines During Lent

What did these poor souls do
in their last life
to be forced into a tight can,
covered with oil
and sealed in tin,
then closed
into the deeper darkness
of a small, cardboard box--

words of memory
only translations
of ingredients
in English,
Norwegian,
and Japanese

Buried,
not at sea,
but instead
on whole grain bread
made at home
by an amateur baker
only to be ingested, crushed,
bones and all,
and smothered
in hot sauce.
Just enough time
between another set
of fundamental classes
at the local community college.

Better that, one might suppose,
than the poor chicken
across the table
wrapped in a flour tortilla,
shredded and tossed
with mayo, organic spinach-
forced to lie down
with Vermont cheddar,
before an eager professor of writing
devours it all,

only after apologizing
to the vegetarian
sitting nearby,
poking fun
at her attempts
to order the universe.

Who knew
sardines--
these silver-toned beauties--
could carry the karma
of light, of forgiveness
so simply in their small bodies
all the way from the watery depths
of another confession
to the smile on a man's mouth
to enlightenment
and back
again,

and yet,

again.

Certain Kind of Sorrow

I used to know
the ways to escape,

to be come invisible,
stepping out of my own skin
at a moment's notice,

dropping my body
like a slip off my hips
onto the cold floor
in the dark.

The freedom
of those moments
of flight--
allowing the tides
of my breath
to wash away
suffering--

it was so familiar then
I could feel
the pulse

like wings
under the bones
in the solid cage
of my ribs,

holding me in the place
I had allowed myself

to be

alone.

That certain kind of sorrow,
a single note of birdsong
at dawn,

hovers
near my skin
as a reminder
of the ways

the soul learns
to survive--

the way she makes kindness
for the stranger
within

a war to be won
at any cost.

Dust

Feel the walls
of the body
in which you currently
have come to live,

the hands of your soul
covered with the dust
of each day
of decay
that flakes off,
small and dirty bits of earth,
rejoicing
from the inside
out.

Ashes to ashes
you let the detritus
of humanity cling to the frame
of your thoughts--
the clanking pots
on the peddler's cart,
calling out
as the idea of you
walks through another year
of longing. Peace
down the next street
or, maybe,
the next.

Perhaps this time
you will stop,
open your tired eyes,
and notice the bruises
on the backs of your hands,
knuckles swollen from the fight,

and simply
wash away the blood
and the arid land
of this temporary
dwelling,

disappearing
into the dusky outline
of nothing,

finally
vanishing into
the particles
caught
by the expanding
sounds of wind.

The Lover Again

Make tomorrow different.
Make it a day that means something
to a heart that wanders
to the edge of the stars
and is ready to fly
into blindness,

ready to forget
the past of too many sorrows
where flame stripped
all the layers of longing away
and left me naked, standing alone
in front of a laughing god.

Let Him, the knowing one, trace
the shape of my heart
with your fingers--

leave me wanting
nothing more than my initials
carved in wet sand
and temporarily sheltered
by sea shells
on an impossible winter day.

Sing to me
with God's plentiful voice,
in rhythms tapped out
on the bleached skin
of this body.
Hear the emptiness of blood pumping red
and,yet, full of breath, in this hollow place.

Turn me around,
if you have the courage to face me,
exhausted with pure air
and shining like the moon,
waking me unexpectedly
before I set silently
at the pink edges
of another dawn.

Make me the lover again,
waiting and always changed
by the passing of one
precious day

resurrected by a single,
trembling

kiss.

Heat of The Soul

We didn't know
that we weren't here
when we first admired
the shadows of the dream
we had together
expecting love.

We didn't know
that we were only shells
for the soul,
only here to work out some lesson
where karma burns
the contract of another life
with only the ashes
of an idea of the self
remaining.

We thought
that we had traveled
so far
to fall again
into the embrace
of loving kindness
and the heat of belly
against belly,
forgetting that we
are always making love.

Come find me
in the sacred spaces
of an afternoon
before this body turns
another year on the calendar.

Before we turn back
to the center of all knowing.

Press your face
against the misted glass
of the mirrored window
of this train--

before she leave the station,
before it is too late
to breathe
one last breath
together

knowing the indescribable
heat of one soul
splitting.

Knowing the pain
of one more birth.

Blue Cats

Sometimes when a poet
writes about blue cats
wearing bow ties,
she is not writing
about blue cats
wearing bow ties.

Instead, she is really writing
about Love
and how he makes her laugh,
eyes turned to the heavens
and her soft belly relaxing
into a sigh.

Sometimes she wonders
how blue cats came
to symbolize Love
in her mind.
With that single thought
she rolls over
in her soft February sheets
and reaches to touch
warm skin, smiling.

Last time she remembers
walking up the stairs,
Love was waiting for her
with a surprise embrace
wanting to share
forgiving words with her,
wanting to place his hands
on her face,
gently looking her in the eyes
consumed with heat and time
passing too quickly.

A butterfly tempting the paws
of a blue cat.

It was not a lost opportunity.
Instead, Love took the poet
to pray under the moon.

Blue moon, like Picasso's brushes
painting confused shapes
with God-words
that no one else
could hear.
Blue paper saturated
with translation;
a key to all language.

Blue cats wearing bow ties,
making her laugh out loud.

Sometimes
joy

just happens.

Slowly Waking

Honey melts with lemon
and hot water in a cup
made by a local potter.

Start the day breathing,
writing.

The cleansing ritual
of words making their way
onto the blank space
erases the mind's holding,

opens up the universe
to liquid possibility
and forgiveness for clenching
the fingers of too much hope
around nothingness.

Instead, this morning,
open your aching hands,
unfold your arms like wings,
and fly off this page
into the sound
of the full moon.

Another day
waking slowly
from all dreaming.