Saturday, December 8, 2012

Anxious heart

If I never broke down I'd be
      broken up

If I never let go I'd never
         let come

If I never stooped low I'd find myself
            high and undone

But I broke last night, I let go, and now I feel stooped and aged in my anxious heart.

Her name was Anxious Heart and she lived with the tired tribe from Nantucket. Wearied from war with their ancient brigades, she marched alongside them to each of the caves. This one was frozen, they wore fur and parkas otherwise their skin would merge with the wet ice on the rock of the inner cavern. Her father called to her, telling her something of the news of their next move, but she curled into the wisps of warmth, the animal she had killed and skinned. I am tired, her body told her. And it was louder than her father's voice. Her mother gazed at her from her perch with the pot-makers and stirrers. Her mother knew in her brown eyes something of the blood of her daughter. And she blinked to the beat of her Anxious Heart's drum.

No, she would not marry him just yet, as Anxious Heart was not ready. She had other things to do before she died to herself and merged with his spirit. But she could not tell what it was that was needed of her. And her father could not see. And her mother and brothers and other sister could not speak anything that would ease her Anxious Heart. So she curled into the womb of the animal and watched as the camp huddled its busy huddle and stretched itself to the quick.

In Arizona

leaves turned orange
still green
like bananas
December, seventh
in Arizona

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Where do the bunnies go?

Where do bunnies go
  After they’ve crossed the road
When their tiny shiny tufts
Of fur
Escape into the rocks and pebbles?

Where do the orphans
When there’s no one
And the tiny shiny streaks
Drip onto their shirts?

I asked
And you

As my chin begged, shaky
And my lashes smoothed the sea
And crinkled, wrinkled nose
Just lay there

Where does the sun end
When it reaches me
In my arm
In my hand
on my skin
In my deepest within

Or through me?

Where do my thoughts go?

And where do I go
From you
And you
From me
Where have you gone
And why can’t I be there too?

Friday, September 2, 2011

Reading poems

I listen to music
floating off the page like feathers on my eyelids
and oranges at my lips
the halting, faltering human souls
whose words remain forever fixed
with voices loud, throats open, eyes seeing

I listen to their music play
out across the span of all that lies
when it lives and shifts and cries
prostrate before the words
subject to the Queens of the land in these songs
Deep in darkness
out comes a koi fish in my lily-pad pond
a large, gentle, mysterious creature
who is fed by the bits and fragments
of these poems
gobbled up like its his first and last
he savors the texture and taste and his whiskers
go blowing bubbles up to my chest
and resonating sunlight off its iridescent fish skin of scales

I watch him
I hear the poem
and I feel the meaning
being within
already true
already written
but not known
till I read each savory
new word placed there by someone
writing poems

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Climbing My Cactus

There's a cactus along the circle
next to pieces of her tips on the asphalt where she dies
 She stands
I want to climb her burnt, decayed body, yellow and black and brown in the musky light of desert tonight

Her spindles will stick
 in each of my skin
my arms hugging first her base, then up past the first branch
her arm and mine, intertwined like the gorilla and his own, fur on leather skin.

Crouched and cradling her, and she to me,
I will rope myself around the fatigued and rotting body
to see the bright in the pink orange white and gray,
leaving us there to lookout on the awakening creatures scurrying.

A rain came a few weeks ago and broke her.

Pieces from her tips fell like stiff leaves, scattered in a mess.
No one cared to sweep the road, so she stayed dying and ugly that way,
The only one of her kind,
Her eyes watching the sun where it went.

Lightning joined to her later, burnt her where she stayed.

And I found her.
And I wanted to clean her, touch her in the hollows where birds used to nest with their babies, hum life back into her ears.

She won't have it, won't let me climb her, doesn't want healing.

She has lived there for centuries, and now I watch her die,
 and she tells me she's staying, till the dust of her skin flies to the sun
and no longer does she beckon to the rain, to the birds.
She will not stand, she says, she will sit,
until the ground escapes her.

I want to climb her.
This beastly cactus.

For she beckons me with her broken branches and rotted core, she shows me of life in the rains in the desert on my own.