Delicate Axon

Close your eyes for just a moment
and you might notice the pulse in your body
or the vibration of a truck rumbling by at dawn.

Open your eyes and breath deeply into the earthquake
of an ordinary day in a life that trembles at the evening table
and synapses flash and flicker with all that electric joy.

If you are awake
you will shiver knowing
 that stillness absorbs
the undulation of responsibility
and grief of letting go of the delicate axon
that connects charge to reaction.

Close your eyes
and listen as I inhale
and exhale as many lessons
as one woman can learn.

This knowing is the elixir
we all must swallow.

If I Wanted Comfort

Sitting in a circle of strong women
I whistle at the stockpile of chatter
and steep emotions that burns
yellow and bright flames
in each belly.

Each belly that has birthed a child
from the chaos of wisdom
clanging loudly in order to find comfort
in the skin to skin human experience
of mother and child at the breast.

The skin is the largest organ of the body
sensing everything from storms and sticky summer heat
to the cool breeze of love gone from our sight.
and the mouth of a child looking for her source of life.

If I wanted comfort
I would walk with my face to the wind
knowing that the way home
might be easier.

Instead, I will clear the mind
like a slate washed clean of yellow chalk
that traced the shape of problems solved
and words too precious to repeat.

Going to Bed

Feverish with a drought of touch,
the approaching night is bleak
and notorious for the pain
provoked by the flow of too much yes
and not enough yowling alone.

I pull the feeble flannels
and too many pillows
close as feathers
into the nest of bones I make
each time I must sleep.

If I motion to you and whisper
that it is time to join the tumble
into what we know of love,
be gentle.

I have forgotten
all the rules
and need to be reminded
of what really matters.

First

Pray,

cut me close

like a fresh razor

drifting on the edge 

of melancholy.

At dusk on this first day

of a new year

I am on the fringe of delicate ice

of the mind where disbelief

freezes like crystals

mid-thought.

Somehow sunset crouches near the road

ready to throw me into the inky darkness

of a steep ditch and leave me

until the rumble of morning

shoulders the way home.

This stupor sinks in,

standing at the head of the line

waiting for some kindness

to break the silence.

Joni MItchell Sings After Thanksgiving

On the day after Thanksgiving

all of those I love leave me again

for the coasts.  

 

So far from the snow and cold.

 

I tip my glass full of smoothe elixir,

so lucious; this grateful concoction of losses

that even the moon can't soothe.

 

On the day after Thanksgiving

Joni Mitchell is singing again.

Her viscious truth stands proudly

over the body of sadness.

"I really don't know love. . . .

at all," rings like a meditation bell,

daring me not to sob.

 

Daring me to be quiet again

as I discover what I have given up. 

I really don't know myself 

at all.

It might as well drizzle.

Her voice skates on the open ice

of my broken skin and bruises.  

These illusions have fooled me again

and I am walking on the frozen ground

trying to shake the constant doubt

I can't help but bury deep in my pack.

 

On this day after so much joy,

steaming mouthfuls of holy communion,

Joni sings

and I know I am bound for 

a very long winter.

 

 

My Guest is Late

It didn't snow here tonight

but my guest is late

because an over zealous trucker

got stuck at the curve near Hogback.

The darkness and blustery chatter of the rain 

slow the thick quiet with the sudden lack of traffic,

the regular rattle of wheels  on Route 9

and chains over brittle rubber traveling east.

Soon the skinny light of December

will shrink with the cold days

and Molly Stark Highway will close

more often than the big rigs

and skiers from CT, MA, and MD would like.

I pull the blanket over aching shoulders

and drink a cup of tea before sleep.

The hum of November

all around like copper leaves

falling to their resting place.

Somewhere Before

Somewhere before I was born
I was ashes in the Earth,
or maybe that was after I died
the last time.

In the circle of all the women
I've ever been, my feet are firmly
on the ground
dancing with God.

Here, around this fire and the heat
my essential self is urgent,
seeking to join our deepest longing
and know just what to say

to the heart of the haunted
ghost-structure
where old damage
is bloody and dreaming;

the wisps of freedom
that rise up
from sorrow's bed.