Archive for the ‘2011’ Category

Black Rosehips

Wednesday, May 7th, 2014

Rosehips shriveled black,
unpruned by the year’s white shears,
will not flavor tea.

2011, 2014

because I arrived in the dark

Friday, March 30th, 2012

what I thought was rain was the river
moving over the mountain of sleep

I woke again and again in a room with three beds
and three poets, heads resting on the soft chests of words

not a sound, not even the sh of restless
sheets, only the breath of the river

threading through poems that might be
sewing this warm inside world to the cold

alpine spring, our almost stories blinking
holes in the high spaces of night


for Laurie and Ellen, KCPF

Love! Love! Are you? Are you lost?

Friday, December 30th, 2011

Again the owl asks from its unknown tree who are you.
The night between each star asks where is he.
The moon sees geese and asks where are my teeth.
Your heart divided in four walks around outside your body
on two mountains, through two cities and asks where am I,

where is my blood, and your blood answers.
I am a small ocean in a small white house with no tide.
A still sea ignorant of its own circumference and depth,
blind fishy eyes floating through warped blue like mirrors.
The circular edge of salt says nothing.

When three parts of the heart return, there’s more
pushing than receiving blood, lub louder than dub.
Each chamber gathers salt like a cork stopped jar,
white as the moon’s teeth, for safe keeping, for the kind
of healing that sings, we’re here, we’re here, and stings.

title from “buffalo on the wing,” by la fey wit

Women 101

Monday, December 26th, 2011

When your wilted beloved
hands you, if you are lucky
her tattered Manual of Me
a subtle, small print read

or worse, you’ve put this off
and wilted has turned
to loss, shaking in your face

her Idiot’s Guide to Keeping Me
full of tough love slang
and hand drawn cartoons,

it’s easy. Don’t put it off. Read.
Clean and rearrange your tools.
Fine-tune. Not her. You.
Notice she is reading yours too.


Sky Gazing

Saturday, December 24th, 2011


the sky.

is no


to rest

do not

what a


or what


to a


from bed




to Ruth Stone, so old and so new

Friday, December 2nd, 2011

I want to hear you more, mottled
prophet of wild eyes searching air

I want to be one foot from your
stained folding chair, heavy worded

hands waving, begging, rubbing words
into your white hair and my ears

like a quiet wind blowing blue squall
stomping up and down ancient stairs

upon which we crumble and climb
into blaring white sky and fall through

a hush of soft green needles
where your words play our grooves

like a record scratching love love love
and we swear that is what we are made for

in response to Ruth Stone


Thursday, November 24th, 2011

may it come that all the radiances
be known as our own radiances
~The Tibetan Book of the Dead

As we eat, may we come to see
this generous bird is the seed
of our own earthbound flight,

these potatoes, our own
bright familial roots, reaching
through what is heavy and dark
to one another,

this corn, the sun’s teeth shining
in our own mouths,

these creamy beans, the liquid
marriage of everything green
in our own hearts and busy fingers,

this bread, our own ever-leavening
toward golden,

this pumpkin pie, the eight-spoked
wheel turning and turning us true,

this table, the mirror of our own
abundance upon which your faces
become mine, and we feast on
each other’s delight.


October Monarch

Sunday, November 20th, 2011

because Becca found cancer in October, when I always remember

There are butterflies
in my stomach— chrysalis

ache of acid turning
bitter legged worms into monarch

wings. I throw back my head
gaze at sky, open wide my mouth

let in light. They crawl my column
of breath past teeth

and tongue, perch on parched
lips, unfold and dry. Then one

by one leap! flutter! wing away
to warmer climes where they

eat flowers, lay eggs in someone
else’s grief and quietly die.


The End of Daylight Savings

Saturday, November 12th, 2011

My hunkered shadow drives ahead of my speed
strange ear to the grey road, always listening
for the west in the eastern way I go.

And I wonder what is east in me, what sunrise
I avoid in blood beating west west west.
Why must I always long to live in sun set

when I know there is truly no disappearing
light, just a constant circling, my own looking
up and out, away from sun dial feet.



Saturday, November 12th, 2011

You are a walking sky
I’ve learned to fly through
my trepidation dragging storms
then light and red kites, murmurations
parting and mending like night swarms
sometimes a dark hawk riding heat
over the smallest of prey
or the day’s yellow promise
spreading warm for two ravens
cawing in outward circles of awe.
My personal turbulence, drops
in pressure, weather of my own
parents’ hungry patterns now mine.
Let them go. They are not you, or me.
I am just another sky joining yours.
We are the beginning of a widest blue.
(Please, my dear, do as I say, not as I do.)


Public Dénouement

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011

Error’s always waltzing
with my shine.
Hidden dancing knots the
risky twine.


October Insomnia

Wednesday, October 19th, 2011

Cricket song is gone.
A highway is still awake
sighing as it turns.



Saturday, October 8th, 2011

Just when you’ve finally grown sure hanging,
the vine drops you full of juice, your deepest hue.

Or else, a hand you’ve no eyes to see tests your edges
firm, tender, perfect and plucks. Everything moves

around your disorientation, your unleashed shape.
You reach for what held you, what you held safe.

The architecture is gone.

Next you lose your green head, your yellow core,
your bottom edge. When you think it can get no worse,

the plunge into searing heat. Skin flays open
at your neck. In a flash, you are out, embraced

by strange cool, bumping into peers, everyone weeping.
Hands gently peel back your skin, a sound sighs

surprised pleasure in your silken flesh, nerves a net
holding seeds. Sheer exposure. The air receives

your glistening. Listen to the silence of your new body,
tucked into a pocket window, saved for some future

feast in which every living being is your guest.


he even changed the way we grieve

Thursday, October 6th, 2011

we waited all night
for our network lives to load
while the world sighed Steve

touching screens, the space between
our thumbs, widening

6 October 2011

two days (and you still haven’t put up the tomatoes)

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

When you’ve shredded five zucchini,
for sixteen loaves of bread,

When you’ve wrestled the machine
to snake the clot you dread,

When you’ve folded all the laundry,
graded papers, sighed and read,

When you’ve dusted all the shelves
and through lone hours, bled,

When you’ve walked the limping dog,
changed the sheets of your sweet bed,

rest in it.