Poetry

there were so many
photos of women
among the pictures of your
            fraternity brothers
            friends from high school
            family
among the pictures of
            trips taken
            things seen
among the pictures
            in your album

so many
most of them blonde
all of them pretty
a surprising number of them
            taller than you

among the pictures of
each of those women
(blonder than I, and taller)
there was at least one
with the look
the trace of fear around the eyes
and the trying-too-hard-to-please tightness
            around the mouth
            framing an anxious smile
            on an over-eager face

what is it about you
            about men
            (or is it about women)
that makes it so important
            that we please
            that you approve
            that we belong
that makes us want
            to heal the hurt
            to make the difference
            to be the one
that draws us in
            like voyeurs to the accident

I knew it was over between us
the day you took my picture
at the Fourth of July party
in the back yard of your friend’s house
the picture that is still on the roll of film
wound tight like the terror in me
waiting to be exposed to the light of day

I was holding your drink
you were holding my heart
and I could taste the look
            on the back of my teeth

she dies
in pain
in fear
in rehearsal
over and over
before I even
get to the page
she dies

inside the fear
and pathology
of no remorse
inside the house of death
he kills
she dies

easy when they’re pieces of plot
markers in a tale of
terror and tragedy
but then they grow
walk breathe talk
they live

some say they don’t
that they’re not real
only perfect line
and perfect reply
imagined onto paper

I tempt the fates
invite the future
ride the risk to where
vengeance is pure
and I write
with headache
heartache and
ice cold thrill
until
he dies

I am dancing
with the dark side
I don’t care
who’s leading

for Cadíz

Mommie (she said
                   declaration
                   out of the blue, one day)

Mommie (never, with her,
                   a question)

I liked the vacation in Carbondale
      (she said)
      better than the one in the Bahamas
      or the one in Mexico.

(better than the one in the Bahamas?
      two years ago
      blue sky, pink beaches
      turquoise water
      kids’ club with scuba diving
            swimming
            snorkeling
            snacking

      when he was still my husband
      he asked if he could go with us
      he said I’d like to spend
            thanksgiving with my family
      I heard I’d like to spend
            thanksgiving with you
      that was before

      warm water, sun toasted skin
            our children’s on the beach
            his against mine
      thanksgiving dinner in sandy swimsuits
            and bare feet)

Really, Cokie? (I ask)

(better than the one in Mexico?
      blue sky, white beaches
      three years ago this new year’s

      that was even longer
      before he moved out
      and I moved on)

Oh, yes (she says,
                   open, earnest,
                   ten-year-old heart
                   never broken)

Why, Cokie (I ask)

Oh, Mommie (she says
                         as if it’s a joke
                         we both know)

Because we didn’t have to go to kids camp
Because we got to go biking
      and in the hot tub
      and fishing
      and throwing rocks in the river

(she goes on
      I still don’t get it
      Carbondale
      blue sky, hot tears
      screaming communal rage with my friend
            whose tiny house we invaded
            my children, my pain, and I)

And because, Mommie,
      you did all that stuff with us
(she’s telling the story of the things
      we did
      I get it now
      the things we did)

Cokie (I say)
             I liked it, too.

barefoot
in the kitchen
he speaks to me
of other things
while he bends
silver stalks to his will
            through    around    up    over
            snug to the hub
            tight to the rim

not willow bark    comfrey    sage    sumac
            in leather pouch    
but spoke wrench    sprocket    three way    chain ring
            in canvas musette
a modern shaman
            spinning steel into
                        spider web
                        god’s eye
                        dream catcher
                        medicine wheel
weaving metal to a perfect circle
            then true

I love
the high plains desert
crunch of boots
along washboard gravel roads that
slice through
between sage
piñon and prickly pear
roads to nowhere
and everywhere

my grandfather would drive
faster than I liked
kicking up great plumes
of dirt and dust
sometimes brown
sometimes grey
more often red
deep sandstone
red

where
was he going
so fast
so loud
so hard to breathe

behind then beyond
wheat fields
barley
rye
alfalfa
beyond wind dried ridge
past remains of spring hightide
where rain is a battering ram
a plow to wound the landscape
driving before it
debris of winter

it is hot today
I walk
I left the car
not really equipped
for the rocky ascent
up the back of the mesa
I left the car below

I hear the grind of grasshoppers
locusts of the high desert plains
and ancient rusty hinge
call of the redwing blackbird

I hear my own breath
ragged and too quick
it’s been too long since
I’ve taken this walk

my grandfather never touched the sage
either living or dead
the scrape against rifle butt
boot cracking down hard
on a too dry branch
klaxons to coyote
rabbit
antelope
deer

a trickle of sand
down stone behind me
rat
marmot
rattlesnake
I would welcome the rattle just now
wind in the dried grasses
a whisper
hint
memory
no more than that

quiet
it is too quiet
the whine of the highway
departing past the ridge
a plane far beyond
crop duster
chasing
grasshopper
cornborer
mosquito

there is no water here today
no brook
no stream
no river
no ocean here for thousands of years

no water here today
no tears

my heart beats
thick in my ears
hard in my chest
rich with the salty iron of life

I hear my heart
I don’t hear yours

for Theo

Menstrual flow shutdown
moon cycle interrupted
blood turns inward
growing the stranger within
wondrous little creature
symbiont fed by and feeding
my heart.

That spring my son
and my lungs waged war
the struggle to draw in breath
to exchange oxygen across the mucous-clogged barrier
between pulmonary and cardiovascular
my son grew his own lungs
racing for mature-enough
soon enough
to support him
if mine failed to support us both.

Jettison the parasite, my body cried.
Hold onto the child, my heart beat back.
All the while the steady underlying
asthmatic accordion wheeze
inhale . . . two . . . three . . . hold . . .
exhale-hard-out . . . two . . . three . . . rest . . .
That spring
it was harder to push air
out of my lungs
than it had been
to push either of my daughters
out into their future.

Countdown
hold on
twelve more weeks . . . eleven . . . ten . . . major attack.

I was enchanted
bewitched
besotted
baited
trapped
hooked
run to ground
run aground
ground down.

I climbed over glass teeth
where broken bottle shards guard the wall
scrabbled down ladderless brick
with scraped raw elbows and knees
crawled under the razor wire
sprockets
fish hooks and
wood screws
iron brambles
dipped in blood
gone to rust.

Here
where wire is barbed
barbarous
bearded
blood-blackened

these

(not the wedding ring
so easily removed
but so long remembered)

these

are the binds that tie.

Rise up rooted, like trees.
Rilke

We rise, uprooted like trees.

I have a vast vision
of oak, cottonwood, catalpa
all leaves and boughs down
root balls up dangling
dirt clods and earthworms
like sticks and twigs in my hair
boughs down, roots up
a thousand spears of broccoli
on an ocean bound journey
bobbing downhill, downstream, downside
up and wave their way by as if
they were going to Mardi Gras
and not to splinters.

An aspen grove is single,
like a forest, a field, a flock, but not.
Manifested as many,
connected at the roots.

One day, I’m single, working
the ten year plan of getting my children
to and through college,
minding my own business
and the next
I’m married, retired, moving.
My children leaving for college,
I’m running out of reasons
I need to do anything else
but love them.