Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Geology Lesson

The Niagara
escarpment.
Granite, limestone
and shale.
Erodes daily.
In increments that
are measurable only
in years.
Ancient tides
receded
and mountains rose
between
rivers that
long to find one another.
Proof then,
that desire is
eternal.

Anatomically Correct

Glad that you were not inclined
to call mine
a femur. When a thigh offers
so much more
comfort. No osseous grooves
but smooth contours that
delight. To reveal.
The secret warmth
hidden within.
Touch me
everywhere. It is
that small kiss in
a soft spot that
I will remember.

Untitled

If I take hold
of a word
and run with it.
Is it mine
then
forever?
Or does it
decompose
once it
leaves your mouth.
If you tell me today
that you love me.
Are they my words
forever?
Or have they
already
lost their meaning.
When they touch my ear.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Bless Me Father


Through the door
          voices.
Doctor as confessor
          handing out penance.
Thirty days of chemotherapy
          and four Hail Marys.
I strain not to listen
          sins of impure thoughts.
Impure deeds.
Malignant cells.
That honored thy Father
          and now thy Mother.
To make a good confession.
Two Our Fathers and a prayer
to deliver us from evil.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

June

Awake. Rainy dawn.
Overwhelmed by the
Scent of sadness.
The scent of Spring.
The scent of roses.
Swollen with rain.

Walking through the
half darkness of
familiarity.
To the kitchen
where the dog stands.
By the door. Waiting
for me.

I've spent the night
talking to you.
In nicotine dreams
laying with you.
So long that the space
between us. Could be
a chasm. Or an ocean.
Or a lifetime. Could be
forever and we'd still
be attached. The knot
in the cord that binds us.
Pulled tighter each time
we pull away.

Just Drifting...

In a room half lit
with a full moon.
Thinking of the sweet taste
of banana popsicles
I ate on the beach.
Before I knew
there was a world on the other side
of the ocean.
When things ended just
at the point where I stopped
seeing them.

Nine Months Later

The dog is still looking for you.
and I wonder what
it must be like
not to know.
Any better.

For me
the permanency was real
on the morning following
that first Spring day.
that was your last.

The lacy leaves
on the Bradford Pear
outside our bedroom window.
bloomed anyway.

And the sun rose too.
even though I half expected it wouldn't.
Couldn't.
And the earth still spins on
its axis.
Exactly the way you told me it did
when we were 17
and I thought
the sun revolved around the earth.

You held two oranges.
In my mother's kitchen.
One for the sun
One for the earth.
Even though I thought the earth should be an apple.
Instead.

The next Christmas you
gave me a book on the cosmos.
And I was
amazed at how
insignificant
we really
are.

Sometimes it's easier
not to know
any
better.



 

Sewing Lesson

Photo by Lori Garske 


Fingering the squares of fabric
that once were my mother's dress
or her sister's nightgown.
Wondering what
my Grandmother
thought while she
stitched. Perhaps
just random thoughts
like the pattern she
created. Knowing
where all those
clothes had been.
Was story enough.
Those years
I resisted
learning anything
alongside
another woman.
Have left me with
empty hands.
Useless to cut
and patch memories,
that warm the night.