You turn your blonde head away from me
where I can still see the shadow on your cheek
My naked eye is always looking for your tender skin under all of those garments made in the east
the search for you is never tiresome as the loss we turn away from
or as weary as this pretending that you don’t have a dark side
it stops briefly, mid-night high, hoping we will look up to see the things that split air are union,
is patient as a kite teetering to stillness just before it falls back to earth to wait for the child’s return-
together, they will break open the day.
the june stars are suffocating while
i lie supine in an almost dark room listening to the street refuse to sleep
the mountains are far from here sheltering everyone or everything that i left behind
And i lie so still trying to hear a whippoorwill beyond these streets
I raise my arms toward the ceiling and the artificial light that seems infinite spreads across my forearms in a way that makes me cry
If i imagine hard enough, my skin is Carter’s Lake on a summer night spreading across the darkness to reflect the moon
some are sun people gold, skin of mamma’s pearl and coconut; they diggin up sand for a castle.
seaweed people washed up on a beach too, skin of fishin hooks and broken shells; they ain’t gettin no castle.
we are all fools of the tides, always afraid of what time it is or what is comin for the lives we’ve made; our nude skin shivers at the things that could wash us away
but off in the distance, the white waves roll and never stop.
we do what we can with our little space, our little time
we grow plants in the corner of our little balconies
we place windchimes where we can hear them from our beds when the storms come
we place the birdfeeders close to the window to bring our unspace closer
we notice from our little balconies that the women walking by are pretty and the men are distinguished
we smell the bread baking, the coffee brewing; we partake of this sacrifice of someone’s hands to feed us
it forms our little space, our little time, to notice the hands, to drink what is offered; it grants us more
He told me i might should get a liddle learned roun the ol edges may be learn where a few periods go between them sentences maybe let em wring the person i am dry and give all who i am to the rule makers makin the purty poetry rules but i just wanna drank my sweet tea and swang before i die or may be make a few rules of my own; maybe I will learn the proper way to write a poem that doesn’t mean a thing.
the birds gathered their voices again
because the rain came slamming itself against the winter trees and pushed flowers from the nest
if not for the robins flitting about my yard i would not have looked high enough to see my name forming around the mouth of the sun again this spring
it is its last day, this month of May, and all of the gifts she has poured onto my head these forty years roll into a crown around my temples
the green carpet has stretched out before me another spring and my feet are bare in the grass like when i was a little girl chasing grasshoppers
if i never see another human again
i will still know someone is loving me out there in the month of May
The friction of the day waxes and wanes, rubs the clouds against the sun
stretches the copperhead’s scales across the warmed stone that you came to sit on
the noon walk down the side walk takes you over a high bridge where you think briefly about cause and effect
the bird falling, diving from the roof only to really live
the ice cream truck driving past you, playing a love song that gives you vertigo
tomorrow, lets go to the lake where i
will spill over and swim
beneath the surface of wet sunlight
to touch the weightlessness of the divine
Not everything has fallen that you’re trying to pick up.
You are a child over the broken plate that hasn’t hit the floor just yet.
Would your fingers bleed to save the china?
To keep mother from scorning you for being clumsy?
Let it drop and shatter into a thousand pieces.
It’s only a plate.