Under Construction

After the wear and tear of the years
I thought I had to start from scratch
bulldoze, leave nothing from before,
rebuild brick by brick

But when those first
destructive urges passed,
I looked around, checked
found the structure still sound
the skeleton strong enough
to hold for a few more decades

So I'm hanging a sign over
my bed, my head:
Under Construction

I'll hate the dust, the ladders
the loud men cracking jokes
spilling coffee
drilling holes
dropping dirty cigarette
butts to the floor

But I know in the end
there will be fresh paint
shiny new fixtures
higher ceilings
a certain elegance,
spaciousness, modernity
a sense of class
that will make the whole
project worth while

Names for my unlikely daughter

Contumelia - from Latin for outrage, insult.
She springs screaming from my equally yowling netherlands

Apologia - formal defense, justification,
especially of one's opinions, position, or actions.
Greek for "story"
Isn't this what children are for?
Our final defense and justification to the world,
we did it for the kids?
If not that, then at least a new story can be told.

Obvia - prevent, anticipate, make unnecessary
From Latin ob viam, "in the way"
Have I made her unnecessary,
or will she prove me wrong,
asking me to anticipate her instead?

Refragaria - from Latin
"to oppose, to withstand, to thwart."
Which is what I would want her to do,
even to me, especially to me
It is her destiny, after all.

Trise - to pull, to hoist, a pulley
She climbs, I hoist, she pulls,
we become a machine that works together.
or perhaps Trice - an instant; a moment
To remind us both,
that's all we get together in this world.

Apostasia - desertion from one's faith or principles
Greek "standing away from, revolt"
To have her, I will need to depart the church of childfree,
but I would teach her to revolt, to stand on her own two legs,
three if she's got 'em.

Prolix - unnecessarily long; wordy.
Latin "pour forth"
She will flow from me
and words of all kinds will flow from us both
as we figure out what we want from each other
and she experiments with how to get it.

Tervagant - boisterous, brawling, turbulent person
A Muslim diety portrayed in medieval morality plays
eventually referring only to women.
A small tornado to wrestle with
for a few decades,
longer if she'll have me.

Copies

He takes them
but doesn't believe her

She could have taken them anytime
to that shop down the street
that sells nuts and bolts
and copies keys

She could have a set stowed away
in these bags she's taking
held together by a piece of yarn
or a garbage bag tie
or even slipped onto that new ring
of keys she carries around

She could come back one night
jump on a bus or drive back the car
unlock the door while he's sleeping
and slip in beside him
as if she never left

Long Weekend

Cars double-park on every block
We drag our bags down the steps
throw them in trunks, drive off laughing

We've packed our hopes for the summer
into this long weekend

We bring shorts to run around in
and a suit for water so inviting
we have to dive in
even though it still harbours
strong memories of ice

We take care to bring fleece
just in case the nights
are not quite as warm
as we've dreamed of
all winter long


Here are two poems from the last few days at the Lake - a couple more tomorrow...

Deaths of Trees

Some trees rot at the roots
fungus grows deep down among
their twenty toes
with nothing to stand on
they topple over

Other trees suffer the indignity
of having their skin scraped bare
by humans, boars, elephant tusks
too exposed to the world
they die of embarrassment

Some are hit by lightening
without warning in the night
a flash of pain slashed in two
smoldering black cauterized agony
they are too traumatized to live

Others see the fire coming
from miles away, watch
their sisters extinguish,
immobilized mesmerized
they are consumed

In some parts, a genocide takes
out a mountainside in a summer
men with their machines,
merciless blades slice unstoppable,
they are sent up the river

But this grandma tree
decades of holes sheltering
birds and small furry creatures,
doesn't fight off the scaly moss
bent and warped from
years of wind-battle
still her sparse branches
put out green leaves
each spring

Stuff

I have come
to get my stuff

A friend suggested
it was too much for me,
I should send someone else.
But where do you hire
a person like that?

No, this is the kind of thing
you have to take care of yourself.
There are too many decisions to be made.

papers: do you keep the notes
from you to him or him to you?
Is it time to throw out the valentines
from the boyfriend now twice-removed?
Who cares the most?

files: who's going to copy
the tax returns, and who
keeps the originals?
Who counts the most?

cds: is it worth fighting
over who really owns the
special edition Miles Davis
even though you're perfectly sure
it was a birthday present for you?
Who listened most?

dvds: who gets Casablanca,
do you split up box sets,
what do you do with
the empty cases?
Who sat and watched the most?

photos: do you keep the ones
where you look good,
or leave those for him?
Who will remember the most,
and who will need reminders?

Agoraphobia

It's safe in here.
Away from eyes and ears
or fingers.

It's warm in here.
No cold blasts of air
or rejection.

It's solid in here.
No expectations to fail
to fulfill for myself
or others.

It's comfy in here.
Cuddled up under covers
or fantasy.

It's smooth in here.
No bumps to stumble on
or miracles.

Tornado Alley

We're packing up the car,
heading right to
tornado alley
for a whirlwind tour
only days after
a killer whirl
left a path of
broken homes
and death.

We have been through our own
tornado alley --
destruction, mayhem,
power out, electricity gone,
tender trees uprooted, stripped bare,
the water that sustains us poisoned,
our home divided
into two.

Clinging to gratitude that
we haven't been killed yet,
we keep coming back
for more.

As if this time
we'll be able to handle
the rising pressure,
this time our cheap trailer
will stand up to the winds,
this time our vow to rebuild
from the mess left behind
by the last vicious storm
will be fulfilled.

Less than Perfect

The Yankee pitcher is flirting with
the perfect game
and I can barely stand to watch,
to take on the responsibility of
Shrodinger's fan:
Does the mere act of my attention
affect the final result?

Meanwhile, on the next
channel, the Queen is at
the Kentucky Derby.
The announcer, casting about
for something to fill the too-long moments
before the race begins
tells us that seeing this race
has been one of her Majesty's
lifelong dreams.

I'm startled, bemused.
What's a queen doing with dreams?
What the hell else is on her to-do list?
You are already Queen!
There are shows for people longing
to be Queen for a Day,
and you're already there!

A perfect day I guess that means,
lacking only a trip to this horse race
or that.
Or for pitchers,
the opportunity to stand before
the frenzied masses
and focus only
on the batter before him
one at a time
until all twenty-seven are disposed of.

Rarer than queens.
There've been dozens of those,
but only fifteen perfect games.

I look away for a second,
distracted by the shout of
kids through the window.
From the television,
the crack of the bat.
It's over the wall.
It's over.

Street Sense comes in first,
Hard Spun just behind,
but there's no crown for second
or glory for those who took
a perfect game
into the eighth.


(Thanks to Bren for the hot tip!)

Cinco de Mayo

The first day of
true spring
bikes, flowers, shorts, sun
We celebrate not by
jumping round the maypole
but dancing with sparklers,
christening my balcony
just as I pictured it
when I took the place
in snow-time

The first party of
my new city
avocados, cilantro, plantains, peppers
procured in chinatown
cooking for a sufficient
number of guests
to feel
this is a place
where I have
friends enough
and the likelihood of
more to come

Just as
Cinco de Mayo
celebrates a
triumphant battle
rather than the
arrival of final
independence

I will take
this victory
and still hope
to win the war

Here we are

Floating above thick trees
Above dark clouds
Above the weeping world

We'd say into the stars then
but that's a lie of omission,
denying the hardships
of what that journey entails

Heading for our own sun-star
gets too hot after only a few blocks --
even our own planet is starting
to feel the need
to scooch back
from the heat

But those other lights
out there
calling to us
are so far, so cold

As fast as I fly
I don't get any closer

The only thing left
is to jump to leap
to have faith, shun doubt

The old ways aren't working
and we don't have time
to screw around
trying to figure out
a logical solution
unlogic is all that remains
reverse inverse the universe
turn it inside out
to jump to a new star

Be in ourselves
the nebula
we are seeking

touch

i go for my massage
at the student clinic
but it's far from clinical

the only fleshy contact i've had in weeks
i preen like a cat when her fingers
touch down

i keep my purr silent, safely caged
so she won't think i'm a freak
but inside i'm glowing, so grateful
for this god-sent feeling

of worth, human-ness
deservement of pleasure

then she digs deep
into twisted tissue
untangling knots of
pressure, guilt, doubt
all the unfinished business
i carry around in that crowded
space between my shoulders
under that fragile neck
straining to keep
my head on straight

deep breaths she says
and I comply,
try to find the path
to letting go

May flowers

I'm ready for my flowers
you know, the ones all that rain
in April's gonna bring on

cuz this here is May
and damnit I've had
enough with rain
and thunderclouds

bring me poppies
and lillies and tulips
galore

bring me red ones
and blue ones
and yellow ones
throw in a few pink
if you're so inclined

but you can keep anything orange
it don't match my nail polish
likewise purple
too garish by half

I'm not askin for
nothin fancy
a fistful of daisies
or a field of marsh-roses
that'd do me just fine