All posts tagged: poem

Just a Description….

Coocoo of the mourning dove Rivals that of the rooster Cicadas chime in Maraca solo Balmy skin sticks To stagnant sheets Vagabond sheep Gnaw on false-sage brush Dismissive of the dogpear Broached to their coats Ocotillo spirals Thick, blooming buds, so red they almost Burn. Breeze sweeps through Wire fences as though Releasing this endless Summer Advertisements

A Vague Transgression

Our last night The split in the blinds cast slitted shadows on your skin The moon leaks a pale blue into the Filtered air and kicks up into our lungs  Cat in the sink sleeps away this August heat It’s four a.m  Phone sounds the waking bell You kick the sheets that tie around your knees and go to brush your teeth I pinch the creases of my eyes to keep from crying  Tears seep inevitably between my fingers  Walk downstairs  Wait for the coffee to steep  ….wait a little longer than it usually takes, Trying to grasp the precious moments you’re  Still with me, wishing maybe You’d stay for breakfast Or an extra day, or week But you don’t falter on those plans you made We walk in somber silence into the humid morning, Dragging our feet across the pavement to your car Grab the handle, kiss and wave goodbye Your lights fade across the blacktop lot I march back with folded arms into our empty flat Crawl up the stairs, flick off the lights …

The Paradigm

Four walls Empty room Bread, meat in the icebox Snow outside,  tempting me to play  with its imperfect remedy. Let the cold in &  those four walls collapse  in heavy folly Making the lonely go away, Making the nothing Go away. Four walls,            Fire burning Cinnamon Warmth of the hearth Bread, meat, laughter Echoes That snow still slipping her china doll limbs under the door Reaching relentlessly Clutching empty air as I catch my breath Begging for my embrace And how pretty and pure and light, I long in a secret still-life reality Ever-wishing to be cold again, But sheltered I am by Four walls Full belly Sweeping, Sweating, cutting my fingers on the machine Stay strong Closing the curtains so I can’t see the snow I watch the thread drop a nd roll To the door, Four walls Between us You look at the woman who shares now your name, That frail, white-bodied figure That stranger That sinner, bumping shoulders with the devil in the corner Things s l o w The smell …

From a Dream

Why am I alone? Sitting empty clutching Golden promises The smoke rises yet Higher from the fireplace Taunting shadows Of this man watching Over your maiden body Buried under oaks Where did you go to? The bloodhounds have lost your scent Was it not enough? Riddling me still Sitting empty clutching Why am I alone?


Concentrate The meaning of the word To focus The chemistry of congregation Negative reflections of Snow kept gates And gangrene feet Ripped clothes And rat feasts The deprivation of my grandmother And her loved ones The near-loss of a society A culture Concentration My husband remembers the first sweet thing That caught on his tongue, One thin foil-wrapped sheet of Wrigley’s gum, That he traded For with one his father’s cigarettes The scolding Was worth it, To realize the world wasn’t All gray & is only half bitter.

The Road

Picking gnats off my breasts Cleaning Popsicle drips from your lips The smell of burning charcoal filling The fresh mountain air, The desert creosote, Embracing our lungs, The Midwestern nothingness Laughing. Thriving in pale echoes left by sunsets We couldn’t hope to remember, Polaroid memorials litter my dash, Like the hallways of Christian families living in the realm of their God and his good graces, But I exist only within the land of those Greedy yellow lines, and they are criminals That control the trade of souls Unforgiving of homes, It isn’t where your mail comes, Or where your love is… It’s where your hat hangs… Next to the noose on the hall tree. It’s this quest for feral freedom, That the road knows, but never tells. And in that open, red dirt canyon land, I am not a wife, not a concubine, not a sinner. I conspire with Texaco maps over purple horizons, And this is not an ode to the open stretches, It is not a simple joy to love or indulge in, Concrete …