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| Migrants
Twin traveler, resonant reflection, what hand
drew our differing paths, drew the hands of us
simultaneously reaching through silent leaves,
harvesting promises for silver pails, from trees -
yours ripening red glory, mine a hundred small suns?
Elusive echo, wondrous wanderer, a world
that knew would be one that drew conclusions,
named our labor opposite - apples and oranges
all over again - but they shall never know the bordering
fields of us, so deeply divided and still so same.
Desirous drifter, meandering memory, we are
motion, slipping the best of these crops into pockets,
letting them weigh like day, shining secrets that wait,
inching closer to fences that separate, seeking
glimpses of shared shadows, warm winds of words.
Heart's happenstance, indigenous dream, if eve
releases us, will we meet face to face,
empty our pockets of treasured things, a day's wages,
sweet offerings, passed hand to hand over fence,
if so and then, will it be enough - the best of us -
enough? | | |
| The Other Side of Blue
Says he never wanted anything
like he wants the sea, craves its salty taste,
the waves as they quake beneath him,
marvelous, muscled creatures born to fly,
and tonight there’s a name on the wind,
a girl half a continent away, waiting,
sweet island in the distance, the other side of blue
and her eyes are the color of mountains in spring,
earthbound evergreen. As much a land thing
as aspen, appaloosa, she can’t swim. Still,
wind sails by under that ocean of sky, leaves
her twisting, trembling beneath him in dreams.
This is need, she says, cheeks streaked
with it, speaks of it breathlessly -
need. And he can almost hear her, feel her
wrap around him now, can almost see
her face, taste the salt of tears, the wind
blowing them dry, sighs as he ponders
this, the upside-down of it - wings of want,
how they’d channel him through the clouds
if he asked them to, and need, heavenly green,
a field of a thousand starry flowers, anchoring,
and her face as she lists, listens for thunder
under a layer of wind, the hooves
of a marvelous, muscled creature coming up close.
He’s almost home, almost splashing ashore
in the form of rain, a bit of blue, and she can taste
it, feel it, begins to hope, learns to float. | | |
| The Moon Verses
I.
After winter, we are war weary,
worn slivers of ice having wandered all
retreatable distances. Fed thin
on dissatisfaction, we find agreement in enmity.
Remember, moon, I danced for only you.
II.
I still ache to be taken, breathe want
into the crook of my arm, slip screams
into your black velvet pocket. Cold-faced
confrontation, you insist I wear the silver dress,
kiss my wine stained lips before I dance away.
III.
Love, lust, hate - all mere destination points
in the same battlefield. You are armored in silence,
I am envy-clad, feigning fancy for the sun.
I endure his torrid touches, pretend they do not burn,
that I am not melting as you draw nearer.
IV.
Closer, closer still, you smell flowers on my skin,
imagine his golden hands tangled in my hair.
You’ve become giant fury, hang dangerously
to the horizon, tremble stars from the sky.
Moon, I fear you are coming unhinged.
V.
The earth is lit up with pale moths gathering,
warning breaths, not of spring but death.
I can hear glass breaking, cannot look away
as you begin to fall furiously, racing
what little distance remains between us.
VI.
Still, all is distorted destination. I ache
to be taken. I am wearing the silver, moon,
cannot escape this weight of you,
the dying ritual of beautiful things,
desirous battles that nobody wins.
| | |
| Season of Discontentment
I can tell you this: it was not any one
thing - not how the dirt
road snatched up all of our love
letters, our hope, our pretty children
with its outwardly direction, empty promises
to return; not the cracked
place in the back of our throats
that comes from saying the same
things over and over; not the ex-
husbands living next door
with former girlfriends or even the taste
of a rumor that’s been cooked
so long that the shriveled bone
goes soft, bends like a slow morning
on the lake; not how we have grown
tired of mourning, so tired of waiting
for day to be that unexpected guest
we don’t mind feeding ourselves to.
I can tell you this: by the time
spring had pushed its way up the dying
river, the houses on the edge of town
were already burning, we had slaughtered
the fatted calf, broken the local bank
into bite sized pieces, baked it all
in the embers of our dreams. By the time
the city news arrived - following some flickering
star across the passes and the thorn-strewn
fields in search of some place
never mentioned on the map- we’d laid down
our souls beneath a blood red moon, cursed
the night as wolves, had swept
our senses so far away that we could not hear
their promises.
I can tell you this: when the world came
to see us, we had already turned the blind
corner, already torn the guard
rails away. When they came to ask
of the road that led to the edge
of our existence,
we’d already forgotten how to speak.
When they wanted to know what grew
down at the bottom of our grave,
we’d already forgotten what life
tasted like, the only way we could explain
it all was to meet our guests
at the county line, take their shoes away
and send them out into the black, our ash
-coated fingers warm against their lips
so they would not spill our secrets. | | |
| Street Walkers
She balances
the baby on her hip, says she thinks
she is fading away. The days
are getting shorter, gray
and she just doesn’t think
that she’ll make it through winter.
Too young, too thin and I have tried
to reach her, I want to shake her
into rightness, but some days I swear
I can’t get past the mirror.
Can’t tell who she is
hiding behind - yesterday
or today or if she even breathes
past the reflection of the street.
The street goes on for miles.
He lingers
at the liquor store, says he thinks
the doors will open in a minute. The drink
will make him free, safe
and he doesn’t want to think
anymore about the war.
Too cold, too old and I have tried
to wake him to the light, to show him
it’s all just a dream, but some days I swear
I am fast asleep.
Can’t open a single door
for him, for me,
there are simply rows and rows
of locked, gray doors.
I have forgotten my keys.
I fall
into the rhythm of the street, I think
someday I will see you here. And you
will take my hand, smile
and I just don’t want to think
about the people you’ll see.
Too many, too much like me and I have tried
to be unusual, but some days I swear
This traffic is my heartbeat.
My eyes are a reflection
of their eyes, and I
can’t shout to you over the sound
of my own voice, but still you
will walk through the miles of my mirrors.
We are all waiting for someone. | | |
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