Black Widow

It’s the possibility of harm
that has me rolling every suspect
into a ball of legs.

To think something so small
could kill. Car accidents, grizzly bears,
yes, but they’re out there.
Not hanging upside down
in a corner, a ticking bomb.

I’ve taken to stepping on my slippers
before putting them on.

A dozen cases of mistaken identity so far.

Sighting that swollen abdomen
on the windowsill, its timex
running fast, a positive match—

I did what every Charlotte Web-lover
would have—I shot it full of poison.
There’s my latest widow on the wall,
an example for future guests.

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I'm struggling with the ending, and with the transition from the fourth to fifth stanzas in this poem. Any ideas about this or anything else would be welcome.

I think this might be my last post. Thanks for all your comments, and for sharing your poems. Look forward to seeing some of these May Day poems in journals across the country in the coming year.

Cottonwoods

Burch Street canopy: gold lanterns
hung from every branch.
How much can change in two weeks.
Early evening on the stoop, leaning into
the street’s new palette,
when you walk past. I hook you
with a question, the answer,
your errand, forgotten
as we crane our necks to catch
October’s curtain call. Sunlight wicks
the leaves pink, then orange
applause against the dark sky.
We watch night turn on
the houses around us.
It’s cold, I said. Won’t you come in?

Cooking with Heraclitus

1.

You can never make the same soup twice.

Follow the recipe, but the vegetables
fresh or bottom drawer

have their own agenda, local vs. organic.
The stainless steel pot a receptacle for mood.

Caffeine-buzz-covering-a-little-sad squash soup.

2.

Walking the west rim of the gorge on sifted dirt paths

past jack-in-the-chamisa rabbits, juncos’ beak-work
in the tawny seed heads, dogs hurdling over sagebrush--
place reflects back who we are at a particular moment.

Not-thinking-about-thinking-about-her afternoon walk.


3.

Muscle memory: chopping an onion.
Add oil, salt, stir.

Even the wooden spoon holds the yellow
stain of what came before.

Quahog

To outlive Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth,
only to be cut in half, declared the oldest animal
that once lived. Like so many artists
gaining posthumous fame. Celebrity clam,
christened Ming—counting its rings, what clues
can scientists find to stop climate change,
or better yet, aging? The new Botox, four hundred years
of seafloor boredom injected into our foreheads.
The ancient Egyptians used Frankincense oil.
The Chinese, ginko. My friend blew $30 on eye cream,
says, we’ll see if it works in ten years. Just blink
and we’re halfway through the month, living
weekend to weekend. Deathbed haiku:
the quahog’s last words--water siphoned, spit out.
Translation: we’re all filter feeders.
Take what comes. What if
we enjoyed our bodies now
instead of mourning what no longer fits.
Jeanne Calment, who lived to be a record 122
said, “I have but one wrinkle, and I’m sitting on it.”


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I could tinker with this indefinitely, but I'm curious to see what's working and what's not.
Also, I'm a bit behind on my comments. It's been a crazy week at work, but I hope to catch up soon.

Fall Equinox

As the nights spill a little more into morning,
I try to make peace with what I haven’t done.

Spiders cache their hours in dark corners,
I squander mine on email and Sex in the City reruns.

Inchworms line the doorjamb for warmth,
curl into accusations when I flick them out.

What rush? Where to? Birds’ yo-yo
branch to ground, call soon, soon.

Leaf miners abandon their spreadsheets
to the earthworms. Let them finish

the work left undone. Turkey vultures circle
the bride and groom, a preemptive I do.

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I'm not sure if my editing skills are helped or hindered by red wine. This is a poem that has images I like, but I'm not sure what to keep, what to lose, where this poem needs to be pushed more. If you have any suggestions, please let me know!

Chamisa

Just when I think summer’s over,
jackets lifted out of slumber,
it re-appears roadside. A yellow runner
of late bloomers fanning themselves
among the purple asters.

October in the high desert has me
peeling off layers and unrolling
the windows to let in second chances—

for Violetta, who at age 63, said love
was done for her. Lingering against the dry grasses,
hip-height nectar. Their brazen gape
so welcome, so unexpected.

Lighthouse or Beehive?

Greetings from Vancouver! I'm just getting started on the May Day project, having been away at "summer camp for park interpreters". I'm not writing much these days, so I have modest goals this year (as in hoping to write something new, anything). What I do have are a few early drafts I wrote when I was in New Mexico this fall. (Mostly, I slept and went hiking in the desert, but I have a few poems I hope to post in the coming weeks.) I also hope to catch up on the last week's posts soon, though I won't be able to comment on all of them. This working full-time business is tricky, even when you love it--today I taught kids how to tell the difference between male and female crabs (lighthouse or beehive shaped tails that are tucked under their abdomen). So please forgive me if my comments are sparser than I'd like. Preamble and introduction aside, here is my first post. Comments, questions, warmfuzzies, and random facts welcome.


Dogs of Montoya Street


Having finished, we put our clothes back on
and went outside to let the first snowfall of the year
salt our faces. We hadn’t said it out loud yet.

The street quiet, a few hesitant tire tracks.
Snowballs that wouldn’t stick together. Tongue out
to catch an I or a you, we rounded the corner.

Three dogs loped up to greet us.
I put my hand out for the dogs to sniff,
prequel to the pat pat pat,

but these were not lick-your-hand dogs—
voiceboxes on legs, they strained the lower octaves
of sleep with their Out! Out! Out!

In flank formation, they advanced.
(Insert here: flashback to dog bites past.
Phantom bites on fingertips, hip.)

The back of my knees
where an hour ago you had kissed,
now freeze, flinch.

Your hand caught mine, held
tight as we walked backwards,
calling softly under our breath

red rover red rover and I knew then
what it would take me weeks
and a couple of cheap beers to say.