We got to market late again
arriving with no time to spare.
Some farmers were already gone
back to henhouses and spinach rows.
Some stalls were bare plywood
embarrassingly nude of food.

So we had to buy eggs from a skinny
cackling woman hawking next
to the grizzled onion seller
with a bad comb-over,
who may be her father or brother
but finally got a haircut, thank goodness.

While we stood waiting, the round women
next to me took every
last one of the red bell peppers—
two fat bags of waxed crimson
trucked in from Florida this time of year—
so I took a basket of what looked like
badly treated Christmas ornaments,
shades of green and yellow
not even coming close to red.

The ladies in the spice shop hobbled
back and forth behind the counter
on swollen feet –
the end of shift approaching—
carrying their smiles above weary bodies,
yet remember what we like
and apologize for being out
a certain sausage they make.
Come back next week, we’ll have more.

The baker’s wife had rolls half price,
our thin reward for coming late,
but warns us, all the booths
with local strawberries sold out
already, so sorry, they were so sweet.

As we made our way dodging
the dwindling crowd,
two cotton mesh bags expanded
to hold abundant bunches of broccoli—
three heads for a dollar, lady,
take ‘em off my hands, lady—
so we waddled out of the market
like packed mules sagging
under the weight of our own provisions.

night walk

you don't ask what time it is
when i say i can't sleep
just come straight from a dream
and tell me you like to walk
across empty parking lots
with your eyes closed, measuring
the length of your comfort in the dark

like holding your breath or a flame
to your palm, surveying the territory
of your conviction, your capacity
to travel the underside of the familiar

i try wandering blindly
through the bed, but
even with you as my landmark, i can't
help opening my eyes, checking
my position in relation to the clock

The things with wings are flying in
like shadows that you hear,
a speck so fast it was not seen
as I read in the room.

The only proof one came at all is
memory of the thud
against the glass closed to the sky.
It must have looked bird-open.

How could a little fledgling know
the air would be so hard,
the exit blocked—

then nothing?

I did look up and nothing saw.
I went back to my book.

Who was more startled when it woke
among the potted plants
and tumbled to the table’s edge
to find the floor so far?
A tiny swoop to land upon
the carpet by the books
piled high like shrubs to hide among,
so why not have adventure?
It would not fly from room to room
But chose to hop around.

A mouse brown bird and just
as small, with pale yellow shoulders
made my chest jump with each
new hop, while thinking,
“Where’s the cat?”

I followed with a towel to throw—
on good advice from friends—
but young is faster than these bones

and makes a good escape.

When I gave up to read awhile
and form some strategy,
the cat came home and fetched the bird
from underneath a bed—

in it’s dark jaws so full of teeth
I knew the bird was dead.

I grabbed the cat by her neck’s nape
and being full,
she dropped her toy.

I braced myself with tissued hand
and knelt to scoop the body,
when off it hopped and threw me back
with a mild coronary.

The little devil, sly and slight
stood posing in the hall
while I removed the peevish cat
and closed the open doors.
I found a basket small enough
And threw it like a trap
to port the youngster back outside
to play in the azaleas.

The cat is back upon my lap.
She thinks we had a party.
No doubt at all,
the screens go on
first thing in the morning.

bleeding hearts

hibernate an ongoing ache in narrowly ground chambers, measure
grief in seasons, find the sum of every year is carried over, wintered beds
subtracted in eager homecomings, and the previous year’s obsession
reduced to memory by a quick, pointed romance, their own movement
manic: love and the newly multiplied reason for existence—every year
they rise to the challenge, collapse once more in sweet palmed
longing, a summer crush of pink and green lives turned, the heart
upside down, and the center of each swollen self, falling

night vision


you can't batten down your eyelids,
can't lace the lashes tonight
wriggling from the palm of the pillow,
your mind won't be pinned

you roll around the bed like an idea
refusing to take root, a loose key
a scrappy stray wandering,
sniffing for sympathy

it takes all night to count the breaths
of the house, to watch the clock drag its hands
nothing will still long enough
for you to tie a knot in the day

a robin, a white-throated sparrow conspire,
pry open the window, slide
their voices over the sill and you try
again to make eye contact with sleep

When I'm 64

Chestnuts bloom pink and white, candy-stripers
outside the old folks home. It’s talent night;

some cheery voice sings despite the shabby chairs
and poor attendance. Walkers and wheelchairs

count the parts replaced, clock
the warranty on what’s left

while I slow-shuffle the block,
pause outside the iron-wrought to listen.

Almost thirty and another hour lost
to the piston of negative self-talk.

I don’t look at people as they pass.
The piano is all raised eyebrows, high notes.

In the courtyard, some fool’s planted tomatoes
certain the danger of frost has passed.

---

Okay, a late night post, but here it is. I'm off to the island for the long weekend; I'll be without internet access till Tuesday. I look forward to reading your weekend posts then. Thanks so much for the encouragement this week. It was a struggle sometimes.

This is the time of the biting bugs
the time when screens should go up,
doors should not be left wide open,
and attention should be paid
when wandering at dusk to view stars.
This is the time when slight flutters
on the arm may bite in the next breath,
before you can wipe it away,
before you realize it’s not just wind
moving tiny hairs against tan skin.
This is the time when day is slightly darkened,
metallic webbing stretched over glass,
light sacrificed for safety, the simple safety
netting provides some sleepers in Africa,
some lucky enough to own it.
This is the time when I remember
the treasure of walls and floors
and beds and screens and all the things
that divide our children from the death
waiting in a silent bite.

just a little untitled lunch-hour dealie from me today...

you've waited too long
to shore up your mind,
correct your spine,
you've been eroded
by the small winged worries
that live on blood,
use your energy and patience
to make their little nests

you are brittle now,
always holding a glass
of milk, hiding small nicks
on your skin
with styptic fingertips

you sit and bite
at the air, arms too worn
to wave away gnats
no one else can see

When words roll through my head
like cattle through a dusty trail
in a distant canyon land
I can almost hear the calling back and forth
the insistent moaning as they travel
on their way to slaughter
hesitant to arrive anywhere
and so plod on at their own pace
herded with great difficulty
from one point to another.
A snake’s rattle or telephone ring
can send them all stampeding.

just like


you're just like leonard cohen,
the way you bring my groceries in,
though you lack the old man cap,
the dark slant, the manners

but you do him better,
pushing the cart and paying the bill,
stacking the cans of beans in the cupboard,
balancing the avacado and tomatoes

you'll never sing my name,
won't make me into a poem,
but you kiss me in the dairy aisle
like he would, like it's the only item on the list

Peacekeeping

An army of stench,
the marigold stands
planted at attention.
Half camouflaged
in green fatigues,
they salute each other
from end to end.
Always an edgy
operation, they’re
the garden’s best
defense— soldiers
and leaves as artillery.
Marigolds hold
front lines, borders,
and beds, fight
for petaline rights
in mud trenches.
They wear their
orange permed dos
in undone helmets,
alert folks at the back
with surveillance,
watch for the multi-legged
drone of the enemy,
fast conduct of bees
active air conflict,
or a probing cat
who squats, dropping
his dirty bomb
one foot away.

Between midnight and one am

I realize I’ve left my laundry in the dryer,
forgot to buy cereal, someone’s
pawed through my day fourteen underwear
and there’s nothing for breakfast.
The day’s spent, but still
I check email, cruise MLS. Scrutinize
my face with a magnifying mirror. Worry
about the groceries I bought on overdraft,
how the bank dings me two dollars
every time I dip into the red.
Body sacked over the chair, I’m unwilling
to usher myself the few steps to bed,
so I type long overdue replies with one hand
till something gives–the clock punched,
I collapse, having earned my seven hour leave.

The candle scent is Sunflower—
meaningless unless you’re into
marketing—
but stale
smoke in the office fades
under the influence
of the small flame
hotly luminating

cut glass walls, a votive
holder too expensive-looking
to be bought by me,
yet
I can’t think of
who would give such a gift
and why to me?
After so
many continuous days of rain
even the suggestion of sun
is the real gift.

taking off


let's wake up early and like robins --
singing, primed to fly

we'll light the laughter of the floorboards
before the sun even knuckles
sleep out of its eyes

pull the plug on the alarm,
on time itself, and obligations

punch t-shirts into a backpack,
let our jobs go like a handful of dandelion seeds

we'll slip out of the grid of days
and lists, the measure of property lines

and stretch

wave to the stunned stucco face
and tell the garden to stand up for itself

Game

At least you’re not raging anymore she says
well into their third pint, as they sit on the patio
trading divorce stories.
Maybe it’s their age, maybe it’s ours,
but I don’t want to be like them,
having just become comfortable with small silences
across the table, as we play scrabble, wanting
the possibility of a close score, a perfect ending,
not some hundred point gap. A year and a half later
and I’m feeling better about it she says
though I still have that impulse to google
him late at night. Sometimes I forget
what it’s like, curled around anger so hot and fast,
picking the scab open again. How could I
and still walk down the street
arms linked with another woman
convinced this time, we’d play it right.




---
Okay, I give up for today. I'm hot and cranky and nothing better is going to come.

Temp gig

By what perversion
of fate
am I editing
wedding videos?

chopping happy moments
into bits
dicing couples'
cute memories
of how they met
and all they expect
from each other
synching the sound
so their stories
sound right

I never meant to
become bitter
or return to
the cynicism
that served my
teen years so well
even before
I'd ever kissed
a boy
or known
what true pain
really was

but here I am muttering
don't believe him
sweetheart
oh god, it'll never work
big weddings can't buy
happiness --
nothing can

And I may be right
but who am I
to fast forward?
Got to just
let them
play it out
slow motion
soft light
kind cuts

In the gray hour before the rain came again,
we found some daylilies, clear lemon yellow,
a small clump hiding behind paving stones
and baby boulders, waiting to be recognized
as one of the special applicants for adoption.
Nearly missed as it lay beaten flat by
this morning’s downpour a single flower
waved on it’s thin stalk, a tiny hand of petals
drawing attention to itself. Only when
I lifted it with a clump of dark
damp dirt did I spy the pair of buds
on the same stalk, baby buds waiting
to unfold like sunshine in the new bed
not far away after a nap and dreams.
Tucking the still sleeping lilies into place,
I sang a lullaby and shushed the baby buds,
letting the afternoon rain continue the melody.

Seven months: the eldest, after...

You turn changeling even before you are born
tugging me into midnight lands where I wear out slippers
two-stepping down the hall in the dark of this body
to empty a bladder hardly big enough for a princess’ pea

When I return to bed touching the mound of mattress
pillows and slung limbs my careful buttressing of your burrow in me
my old soldier wakes the night closing at my heels
and opens the hoary hill of his arms opens them wide

upstairs there's a door


upstairs there's a door
we've never opened,
a room that sleeps
comfortably above us --
such a quiet, shy idea
we keep forgetting
it's an option, a space
we could move into

finding the painted hinges
behind the desk is like falling
for the same magic
over and over: surprise
and then, surprise

i poke my mind inside,
find a collection
of priceless words we might like
to use, jam jars of laughter,
a fortune in time,
but it's not enough to risk
the disappointment of stale
newspapers, empty bottles

i burrow my finger through the ring
that once held the lock,
but i can't taste any difference
in the air on my hands

so i sweep around it,
carefully polishing, but never
lifting, the latch

What’s in a name

Always a celebrity, the rose knows
any other name is her own, understands
she’s the heart of any bouquet—
sells herself by the dozen.

The rose is infectious, the germ
of specialization trafficked in vine and bush.
Public property, she’s a test-tube donor,
mother to generations of herself, a dynasty

tracked back to simple four-petalled features
pressed into service; humbled beginnings
lost in the rapid rise to fame. But her conceit
is only a cover, an occasion to hide fears

of mortality, disease, and customs of flowers.
The rose’s popularity is infinite yet
she remains a loner; her pointed personality
eventually prickles others the wrong way.

Buy and Sell

More than a to b, an old car is a stand-in
for desire, thwarted and otherwise. Backseat intimacy
of buckles and belts, hot vinyl. Steering wheel sticky
with sugar and grease. Every groove catalogued,
every rock that’s ever pocked the windshield, split
a headlight on the logging road to Kennedy Lake.
Fingers crossed, never knowing when the tranny will go,
but that it will, and soon. Such a fierce and tenacious love
that inevitably lets us down, on the side of the road
changing a tire, or waiting for a tow truck at midnight,
the alternator shot. Last straw in a lengthy list
of hard-to-find parts.

So you give in to the sell
but it’s just a bunch of tire kickers
with minor interest, who talk mileage and rust,
don’t care for the particulars of habit, the slight pull to the left
or the wind-shimmy on a straight stretch;
they raise eyebrows at your nicknames.
So you wait it out for the person who tilts their head
at your travelogues. Take a couple hundred less to know
she’ll be treated right; you can hand over
without worry she’ll end up a junker for parts,
least not yet, surely she’s got a few good years left.

A Hug

Passing through the same room
on the way to some chore
some undone bit of work
waiting patiently for its turn
we bump past, cloth touching,
almost moving on,
but stop and swivel without thinking
into the arms of each other
old friends for decades still seeking
the scent behind our ears
below the hairline
right above the neck
burrowing into the collar
holding the flavor of the day
and the smelling faintly
what we must remember from
nursing as newborns
some sweetness that means
we are loved and will be safe
and never alone again.

propulsion


a puddle of sunlight falls in front of you
and you try to get your toe on it,
hold it down, but it shuffles two steps
ahead, and when you reach it, two more,
like an answer lifted by the wind
that you follow into traffic
but never find again

fine gravel fills the gap
in your mind -- you are automatic,
only reflex, responding to the river path

you run past the end of your breath,
beyond the length of your muscles,
powered only by the scent
of an idea you had
when you laced up your shoes
but lost on the trail --
something about hunger, maybe,
or pursuit -- you chase the source,
the thought that casts
this shadow you can't break through

Six months: sound slide

The midnight hammer of new siding come loose
banging against hundred year-old planks
the lashing of limbs the heartbeat burp thrash under my skin
his cocked ear the luscious feel of the orange
whose peel has pulled away from my bite mark
the golden light of late afternoon
bouncing from window to window
and never quite making it down to the street
the stalagmite of ice and sand
that hangs from the wheel well of the car
and kicked one two three taps falls under the tires
like the sudden but total calving of an iceberg
the salt blooms the tight skin of each moony phase
his hand on my leg as we circle the block
the heater struggling
the car pinging and knocking in the cold
how I’ve started to grunt when I lever myself out of the bath

There is a nervous hum outside,
the night noise bent on filling
the black space waiting for morning.
Even a full moon hides silent
behind solid tar clouds,
clouds too dense for even a hint
of lunar light to glow through.
The low hum stays steady,
an insistent emergency broadcast,
cellular vibrations of voiceless things
growing into a million shapes –
the formless hum continues
becoming larger than any leaf.
The peculiar weather swirls cold air
backwards, descending from the north,
heading west, spinning cold from the north ,
humming as it works its not-quite-freezing way
down, directing air currents wide as giant rivers
overhead, cold falling like the chill
from the open door of a giant refrigerator
with a burnt out bulb, no clue to it’s contents,
humming its old motor, barely allowing a thaw.
The hum seems louder than it is, just vibrating
chattering teeth, using the jawbone
as a sounding board. This hum
vibrates the trees and ground beneath
gardens and houses, all waiting for the
overdue breath of warmth.