ALL RESPONSES |
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(for Lizzie Siddal, the model)
Cut the lace and frill. There is more
than my father to know. The willow is
blooming a strange flower, or I am
a flower wilting, looking at my empty
palms, saying who shall fold her hands?
Not this time. This time I will
be the Ophelia who overcomes, rising
beyond her father’s voice, beyond
insanity and death. If I can not
get there on my own, then with Laudanum.
Let it be; the willow can fold its own
flower. My father can fold, the lanterns
can go out. Ophelia is in the cold.
I give myself to art, the death and rebirth
that is remembered. How far I will go
to prove it. |
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I've always had a kinship with others older than myself. I was afraid of everything as a child. My grandmother knew this and was my best friend. She would tell stories of love, life, birth and death. She did not hide from the truth. We would play the piano together and sing until our voices left us. The weight of the world was lifted from me. We flew away, far beyond the reaches of the universe and back again.
The years passed. One day, Grandma flew away and did not come back. I was no longer a child, but was lost without her and alone. No one reached me. My faith in everything was gone. I walked in darkness for a long time. I did not expect to grow or fly ever again. Slowly, but surely, life happened in ways I did not foresee. I made new friends - one of which was Kristin. In the past, it took me years to develop trust and friendship with any given person. For some reason, we connected instantly. She and her kind husband, Jon, welcomed me into their family. This friendship was a blessing of the realest kind. I knew this; however, so much of me was still searching for the truth and was empty. A year or so went by. My husband and I found out I was pregnant. This made me very happy. I desperately wished to be a good mother, and yet I was scared. There was still a great void in my heart. I did not know if I had the
peace, faith and love within to be a mother - or a complete human being. I wished for these things because I knew I did not have any. Someone heard me and answered without saying a word.
Summer was ending. Leaves on the trees were thinking about change. I noticed them all as I walked to Kristin's house. Her daughter, Katie, was moving away to college. She asked me to come over and help her pack. I was happy to do this. After a couple hours of boxes and bubble wrap, we took a break and went to the kitchen to get drinks. My ears started to ring in the middle of a sip. I thought I heard singing and a piano playing "Amazing Grace." My grandmother used to sing this hymn with me. At first I thought I was imagining things. I wasn't. I went in search of the music - and myself.
The music was found in the farthest corner of the smallest room in the house. There sat Kristin, her mother Anita and a tiny old woman with hair whiter than snow. I had not met her, but something familiar twinkled in her eyes. Katie and I hid behind the open door and listened to them sing. I remember how the sun shined through the window and lifted their spirits into the sky. It was obviously not the first time they had sung that song. Their voices were all different but interwoven in such a delicate and intricately simple manner - just as fingers are when one folds hands to pray. I wished so much to join them, but did not, in fear I would break the spell. The white-haired woman laughed as her soul soared around the room. She caught sight of me, stopped singing and stared as if she knew me. We said hello and were introduced. Her name was Marie. She was mother to Jon and many others, as well as wife of Vern. Most importantly, she was a fiery mover and shaker. Marie was her own person.
Kristin told her I was going to have a baby. Marie put her hands on my stomach and laughed, "You have a live one in there!" She could feel the strength of my unborn daughter, who was only two months along inside of me. I told them how beautiful their voices were. Kristin mentioned they sang once a week together. My heart exploded with joy. I lost all inhibitions and asked if Katie and I could sing with them. Kristin's mother Anita played the piano. Marie held my hand and the music lifted us. We all flew beyond the reaches of the universe and back again. There was peace once more.
I began coming to Kristin's house once a week to share peace with these ladies. Every week Marie asked me my name. Every week she felt the spirit of my unborn daughter and laughed. Every week we sang until our voices left us. Marie was a victim of Alzheimer's disease. Her thoughts were beginning to scatter. Kristin and Anita had been singing with Marie so she could share love and peace in a way that was real and familiar to her. Sometimes Marie's mind would be transported to her childhood. Once she mentioned her father and his great love of music. He would play the piano and they would sing together. I spoke to her about my grandmother and how we used to do the same. Marie and I looked into each other’s souls in such a special way. We shared a precious gift. She looked into the depths.... and knew me. Seconds passed.... then she asked me my name.... again...and again.
Autumn was upon us. Leaves on the trees were turning... drifting away... as I walked to Kristin's house. The tragedy of 9/11 occurred days before my walk. I stared at the sky and wondered why. I feared war loomed over us and people all over the world would lose their lives. I feared the worst. Kristin, Anita and I debated whether or not to come together that week. We decided it was important to do so for many reasons. Besides, Marie was not really aware of what happened. Her morning would have been ruined if we had not continued on. We sang our usual roster, which included: "Amazing Grace", "In the Garden", and even "Battle Hymn of the Republic." There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between Kristin, Anita and I not to mention what happened days before. We did not wish to concern Marie with such horrific thoughts. Anita played the piano without any expression on her face. Her eyes were empty and masked whatever she may have felt. Kristin's and my eyes were on the verge of tears. The music spoke of unconditional faith and love. One of the last songs we sang was "Let there be Peace On Earth", (and let it begin with me). The reality of what happened hit us at once. Kristin and I practically held each other up as tears flowed down our faces. Anita did not shed a tear, but her fingers played the music with more life and passion than ever before. Marie's eyes twinkled with light as she believed every word. She smiled from ear to ear and clapped along with the music. At the end of the song, Marie laughed as she said, "Let there be Peace on Earth and let it begin with me." There was faith once more.
As my baby began to move inside of me, Marie's slipped away little by little. She could not live at home anymore and moved to Comfortcare, a wonderful nursing home in the middle of town. I had spent my childhood visiting nursing homes with my grandmother. Even back then I realized the importance of such visits, but could not bear staying very long. The people looked so sad to me, as if they had no life in them. When I heard Marie was moving, I cried. I did not wish that future for her. Marie's mind was leaving, but her soul was very much alive and kicking; just as my baby was. She was still awake inside with so much yet to celebrate.
The transitions Marie made while living with Alzheimer's disease must have been challenging. She was a fiery lady and, in the past, an independent thinker. To live with and feel her thoughts move away, come back, and move away again must have been heart wrenching. Marie had to learn to depend on others to help with everything. She needed the music more than ever.
Winter came. Leaves on the trees had blown away and were gone. Kristin, Anita and I would visit Marie every week at Comfort care. Kristin always washed and curled Marie's hair. This made Marie feel like the queen she was inside. Then we would sing again and again. Marie could no longer speak in complete sentences, but when we sang, she remembered every word to every song. For those fleeting moments, God took the illness away. We all knew this and sang very loudly because of it. One day, an old man rolled his wheelchair into the room and asked if he could listen to us sing. Marie did not seem to mind. He did and enjoyed it very much. Kristin, Anita and I realized Marie was not the only person who could benefit from the weekly visits.
At the following meeting, Marie's hair was done and then we went to the community room where the piano was. We began talking with the residents in the room. They were very friendly. A lady named Marge even had a joke for every day of the week. I could see these people, contrary to what I saw as a child, were very much alive. Their souls were on fire with life. I could see they wished so much to be free from their bodies that could no longer move. The residents reminded me of tiny birds who longed to fly. I would not have been able to see inside these people had I not met Marie. She gave me the gift to do so. We sang to the residents and they loved it. We were asked to come back again and again. That is exactly what we did. When Marie could no longer sing, she clapped along with the music and the others would follow her lead.
One day, nearing Christmastime, they started singing along. We could hear them, faintly at first. Slowly, but surely, the sound became greater and more profound. The back wall of the room housed a glass case of canaries. They whistled in tune with all of us. Kristin whispered, "The birds are singing with us," into my ear. A tear rolled down my face. We left the piano and went into the crowd. We held each of the residents' hands as we sang together. Souls were freed from their bodies. My unborn child danced inside of me. We all flew away, far beyond the far reaches of the universe and back again. We sang until our voices left us. Marie laughed along with the glorious music and raised higher than all of us as she lead us, with her wings, in song. There was love once more.
My daughter, Blythe, was born in the Spring. Marie proudly held the baby in her arms, but she was not exactly sure of who Blythe was....or who I, Kristin or Anita... or anyone was. However, we all were familiar faces. Marie's family and friends all shared a love with her. She never lost sight of what love was.
Two years passed. Marie became more silent. Then, on a quiet January evening, her family gathered around her. Kristin sang our music into her ear. With Amazing Grace, the family lifted Marie's soul into the sky. She flew beyond the far reaches of the universe and is in flight still - now and forever.
Years have passed since Marie flew away.. I remain grateful to her.. Because of our flight, I began my own journey, became complete within myself.. peace... faith... love.. equal and abounding. Some call it God.. others call it the Universe.. Real love connects and transcends us all.
Whenever I play the piano with my little girl, I tell her this story.... of how one little person can do so much simply by being. One heart can change how we see, connect and share love with the human spirit. She laughs and then we sing until our voices leave us:)
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for Anne Sexton in response to her poem, “The Nude Swim”
Why shut your eyes
if water is your strange flower,
the blossom and be-coming
that you sprawl upon,
a flimsy red article
conformed to small waves?
Let it be as it is
but know this,
you stand to lose more than
loneliness in an Italian grotto
that mimics and absorbs
the color of everyblue.
Any body
of water can become
a tomb, yourself mislaid
in sex. Even an odalisque
floats in the common hue.
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The creek is shadowed by mannerly pines
Praise for all stones that leap from the creek bed
Storms ambush the glowering sky
Praise for the tumble of sagebrush clouds
Fate tips a mirror toward darkness
For two sailing stars, the vehicles of sympathy, empathy
Praise from the shortest day of the year to the longest day of the year
For we who persevere, who are or were here, praise
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you look lonely there
in the water, half submerged,
biting the inside of your cheek
looking away, not necessarily
flirty, just afraid
you look lonely, you know
not free or buoyant, enjoying
your own company like some
other girls I’ve seen, reaching
for an odd hand, switching
crossing legs
you look lonely being yourself,
and for your own good, I hope
you don’t meet anyone as lonely
as you to make you feel okay
about all this |
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Like fluid sleep
in the density of its flotation
my bony distractions drift off
the cold and stony beach
in the rocking repetition
of a rhythm of dissipation
where pain becomes a buoyant motion
a purifying pendulum of warm time
and lets me be free
temporarily
even of you |
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Memory floats from past to future.
The brain swims in blood.
Currents conduct thought from mind
to mind on the surface of the sea.
Love is a liquid. Lymph. Semen.
Spit. Bile -- Suspended like truth.
Consciousness from salt and water,
connected to a body, somewhere. |
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light words
exhume
the watery grave
a puddle
clutching
curls of rain
with
pained girl
fingers fingers fingers
i thought
they were mine
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It’s time, she told me.
Time to let me go where I belong.
Back to the waters of childhood,
The sea of unending dreams.
Don’t let them tell you I never wanted you, anymore.
My time came and went, she promised.
I said my prayers and obliged her.
My dearest, greatest love.
I let myself float away.
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mama
will you remember me
after the floods come
when you've bottled
all the reveries your tiny
heart can hold
in glass jars
moonshine
and fireflies |
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bathing stress away
the phone rings
i plug my nose
sink slowly
beneath
the surface
of tepid water
into silence
i pretend
i’m Ophelia
dead to the world
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Dear One, July, 1913
I have waited all these long days to respond to your last letter. Your words moved me beyond reproach. What am I to do with you? Your spirit is so real to me. The poetry of you overwhelms me with peace.
Your note reminded me of days of old. Remember when we were young and roamed through the night? We hid in the trees where no one found us. We laid in the branches and counted the stars. Secrets were made on those windows of Heaven.. weren't they... I keep them still.. so close to my heart.
We flew like fire flies or fairies in the night and lost ourselves in the tranquility of the evening. We found any excuse to jump in the lake. The waves danced around us as we sang a melody known only to us... In the dim where spirits swim the voice of love sang our sweet hymn. The majestic harvest moon shone upon us with all her glory. How we glowed with delight until it was morning.
I look forward to our next visit with much anticipation. My heart waits at the windows of my soul for the rush of white light that is your presence. We will speak on every subject. Do you feel as I do... our spirits melting into the other.. taking flight amidst all the earthly cares surrounding us. Let's fly away and disappear like fairies in the night and not make our return until it is light.
Where e'er you roam and feel the wind whirl round your cheek.. know it is the friend in me giving you the peace you seek. You are not alone.. I know.. Isolation be no more.. I know.. I know.. I know...
My dearest friend.. May your spirit be at rest.. from the east onto the west...
Forever,
Your Marie
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Face Under Water
In the opera, Ophelia dies on an ice-blue floor,
strewn with white flowers, baby’s breath, calla lilies.
You can easily imagine the cold stream she lets
herself down in, the flowers afloat on top ice.
She is indeed alone on stage, playing, guiding
a knife as she sings and cuts herself. Serene,
hers is the unreachable countenance, the future
that is blank and breathless under water.
In the past two weeks I’ve seen two women drown.
First Geraldine Page in Woody Allen’s Interiors.
Now Ophelia live and simulcast from the Met.
An ocean or a stream is the collaborator, the roarer
or representer of the blood drained face.
Is it the ease of walking into and under water?
Accessibility for the love-challenged? Skip flowers
for the wedding; use them for the burial?
I don’t want to make fun. A guilty heart burns
with misdirected ego, pushing dire penance.
The head underwater. The face-side up.
The hair streaming like eternal seaweed.
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each fall
cadavers gather in the skies
shrouded in bright cloud vapors
as they drift, feet first,
toward the far horizon
there, to pay homage
to all the tomorrows
they will never see
as Mother floated by
on dreams of glory vain
I tried to pull her from the line
she would not
be roused, nor rescued
eerily slipping through time
(hers, mine)
gaseous and untouchable
her life
was but a dream.
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This is what happens.
The mind fights.
Arms, legs, flail against
what is,
meet no place to grasp.
Yearn.
Reach.
Fail.
Oh, ache.
The body, knowing better,
yields,
slips beneath wave
after wave
and then,
the miracle.
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Lydia Small is pregnant
with ideas
They kick
like the unborn
Her head
swells,
awaiting
birth
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First, you must float, and lose the fear of falling to sandy bottom.
Spread yourself on the water, let it carry you with rows of cool, outstretched arms after catching you from a fall.
The water is friend, a friend supporting, lifting, carrying; a best friend.
You might be tempted to tug at the covers of the water, and curl up into a fetal creature, sinking in the encompassing wet life, dreaming till you drown.
Resist.
You are resting on the water, a thin silk water membrane covering your southern side.
Relax until you forget the water.
Soon the water will forget you.
Drift, drift, my fingertips brushing against your open palm, touching until few molecules connect us.
You are safe, you are weightless, you are harmonious with the water.
Be present to the water and that this water will hold you, never harming you, never letting you down.
Focus on these things,
this path, in time,
this will come naturally,
anytime you chose, without fingertips or buoy.
In time, you shall walk here.
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My mother was baptized twice.
“Double-dipped,” she’d joke,
like potato chips into sour-cream
salvation.
The first time, she was
plunged into ice cold waters
murky waters.
She went under the brown,
and emerged with eyes like golden plates.
At least that was the idea but
there’s never any evidence for smokeless fire;
neat dirt can’t burn.
The second time was pure rainwater.
Heaters kept it warm.
Old men were watching,
making sure everything was in order.
At least that was the idea but
their minds wandered across and ocean
and their feet planted on linoleum floor.
What could they say about ‘in order?’
I’ve never been baptized,
but I’ve gone for a swim.
I’ve taken a bath.
I’ve stood under a waterfall and
let the torrents pound down on my head,
suck me under the weight of the ocean,
and spit me out like needles in
New Jersey.
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In the 70's, when right-wing idealogy was shoved
down our Latin American throats,
among the bodies in the water
my father was one of them.
Yet, water is the place in which I thrive,
the salt in it softening the vision
blurring the lines between ideals
carrying the weight of years for me.
It is the place that undefines borders,
that swallows islands and blends us all
into a shrinking world.
At seven, water seemed endlessly cruel
as it scraped reason off our family history.
At forty-three, it is the place I choose
when history returns. |
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What if that
odd right hand
reaching out
is the most
important
feature of
this photo?
To save?
To touch?
To push
away?
Therein
lies a
story,
perhaps.
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Shade
A figure moves
through days and nights
nameless
wordless
except in dreams
Aye. Eye. I.
Named,
will you run away
dissolve into mist
withdraw the hand that
reaches
toward the next thing?
One dare not ask your
identity.
Only know,
you shade, you almost-there,
when I ask for a dream
or begin to believe too much
what big books say
I lose you.
When I go about
the daily business
of not knowing,
there you are:
an image formed in sleep
a word or phrase flashing the brain
a resonance loosed in bones
heart beat abandoned
Doors are open
for you to leave signs, post messages.
When you tire
I will make you a bed
on the couch
or in the spare room.
Come and go as you please.
Brew tea, pour wine.
Pick up the poem book
there, on the coffee table.
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The rosary lay crooked
in her hand, elastic rookery
for a crooked gem
Angular, lying down in lilies
unlike the white her mother wore
around her throat
Breath stained by the scent of honey,
bite sized morsels of life
lay undigested in her belly
The marrow of my tempestuous laugh
lost in black ripple, so loving,
a second skin
Like kaleidoscope dreams
lost in the ether,
a second skin
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As long as he can fish. Knows how to cook it
whole, over coals.
Has lovely toes, feet fit for leather thong sandals.
Hair is a must, shoulder length and wild.
Does not mind being caught
in rain; loves olives, drinks wine.
Can name the clouds. Will eat everything
he’s been given. Can sheer a sheep
and bend a hook. Can weave a net, can
unravel a story. Does not shy away
from beauty, loves the world best
when it is in his hands. Follows his heart
around each corner and leaves his shoes
outside my door.
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Huddled on a lee shore
a keeper of dry wood and the fire
mutters through cold lips
of talking snow on brilliant days
of cracking ice in long bleak nights
dreams
water craves water
beckoned
to swim free out of winter
out of the tense crouch
of holding in the body heat
until the soft lake water
holds nothing back
additional stimulus from Freya Manfred's |
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One
At first glance I see you
Lizzie in the tub
posing hours on end
PRB artist too engrossed
to note the heat went
out of the water
nearly caught your death
In the end I suppose this
was better than being on
your feet all day
in the hat shop
Stunner like you
Two
No I was wrong
the allusion is illusion
that story is not Marie's
My terror of the water
clouds my reactions
Finger tips barely grasp
such a delicate hand shake
Her face shows
not despair
but peace
relaxation or
is it resignation?
There I go again
Ambiguous caress
not rescue
not farewell
Soft touch buoys
floating
safe
Three
Connected
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it was not the color of the sky I noticed
it was the lap of the lake’s breath in waves
bobbing up and down, and over me
and our fingers not quite up to grasping
the pull of family lessened
by my marriage to this suit and water
and father’s stories of muskellunge
severing a soul from the world
suddenly seemed right
as I fluttered to the middle of the lake
almost out of your sight
us two only touching by telepathy |
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Easter Basket
shreds of shiny green cellophane
spilling over the edges of woven containment
unruly and rebellious brightness
to entice the eye
and tease the mouth,
almost tasting
the sweet surprises
buried within
nimble fingers rake through
the spongy confusion
hurriedly plucking out
pink, green, yellow, purple and red
lumps of sugared gel
gathering them into a pile
to be surveyed, admired,
and most carefully consumed.
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I was afraid of the water, afraid
of its dark secrets, the muck underneath
darting slices of gold, the slippery brackish grass,
the rough rocky bottom
afraid of the way it reflected back to me
my own face: pensive, doubtful, too young
to forgive, too old to be making the same
mistakes again and again
I entered as if in a dream, shivering,
wanting the shedding
of my sins to be as graceful as your mouth
curving over the words, as sure as your hands
in steepled prayer, as humble as your knees
soaked in green water, innocent of all
desire but this one: to see me sanctified
and floated, the merest touch of a sister’s
wrist to keep me from sinking into the
bottom, the mud, the dredge so
like my despair, and then my sudden
buoyancy as that life fell away, purged.
The cool water held me to the purity of the
vast sky, the gentlest lisp of breeze
kissed my throat
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The letting go is the hardest part.
happens so gradually you can still feel
the tips of her fingers pressed against your wrist
pressed against your lips
The heat what's missed.
that and the pressure, the indent
on the pillow still warm.
To think that the majority of our
time is spent avoiding the touch
of others--for the most part,
our success at this one endeavor
is astounding.
My resume includes the highway,
at work passing papers or a glass of water,
the grocery store amongst the grapefruits
and ripe melons or avocados.
I saw you amongst the leafy greens,
and knew you were better at it
than me,
Your resume includes turning your face
to the shower head with
eyes closed, imagining
each stream a tongue,
hoping the water will find a way
to know you better than a lover.
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Float as held by many strange hands,
the voice of the water carries you
further than you thought possible
tongues and lips gently roll you under,
lick your eyes, nostrils and teeth, tickle your
lungs like a cough.
you read this & still won't
believe it. the cold like a slap
on all your skin at once.
you will think of your ex-husband & hear
broken glass, the taste of hate filling your mouth,
stiff as a board, you will
float down stream, getting caught by
the edges of memory, wishing you had
more cartilage than bone, thinking about
the relative density of both,
knowing the difference won't help
you anymore. |
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“There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.”
-Mary Oliver
Tonight during our walk, you said
the sound of Rice Krispies was coming
from the flower bed, where last year’s
leaves remained, a ground canopy.
The flashlight on my keychain was
enough. Beneath the moving leaves
restless worms squinched, retracting
into the earth.
You radiated, discovering a new facet
of spring, of yourself. And I was a hand
reaching, wanting to hold your light—
is this all the connection we have?
Our fingertips, mortise and tenon. |
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Lily Contemplates
She tries not to think
about what she wants
to tell him. Nothing
will be said about
train stations, gravel
roads, or how sun lights
a corn field. He lives
in a tall building
twenty years away.
Sometimes, she closes
off sound and light; he
stands over a stove,
stirs steaming rice. She
sits close and begins
to tell her story.
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From there we stepped into the hot pool,
and felt the heat moving along our legs
like icebanks on bare skin and endured
a pleasure we did not deserve. Whispers
echoed on the stone walls, sussurations
of other lives lived in the mist beyond
my senses to process. Heat dissolved me and
I sat like a battered boxer, staring at my hands,
and waited for whatever drove me here
to disappear, for the heat to die and
the fog to solidify into
the world I knew. |
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if I lie here long enough
will my worry waver..
if I float and do not drown
will I be in favor..
if I close my eyes to dream
will I awaken slowly..
if i pray to you once more
i will be made wholly..
what if God lives in the sea
as we gaze onto the sky
never knowing where to turn
until we close our eyes..
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The final star switches off
and day turns up its soundtrack of harsh
sparrows, protest of crow, geese rattle.
I remember the male and female
cardinal taking turns at the margin
of midnight, a flare of notes
sent up, a soft answer cupping the ear
then nothing.
While I write, one ant
bears the corpse of its sister
along the hostile border of my pages,
lettuces gleam in the kitchen midden—
rinds, shells, crumbs of a loaf,
black sand of French Roast—
in a dig, evidence—
What could they say of us?
We were wearers
of this fiber, eaters of that fruit.
the rest is nothing but a rumor
on the littoral of silence.
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Fallen too the waves
My temples so utterly numb,
Fish hooks as fingernails drag me down
To the missive tranquil deep
Where light and conversation cannot be spied
It is between us
Only us
I wish to roll onto your shore
Where you can lift me
Admiring my girth and color
Slip your noose round my lungs
And take me home
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I feel you and I
feel you feel me too
I want to ask you how
one floats laded down
with so much information?
Every single thing
that doesn't kill us
makes us sadder
Like a mermaid
tangled in a net
you have given up
gasping for good.
Like an astronaut
on a tinfoil tether
You drift away
forever |
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Behave: you are already drying
out beneath the moon
Just grieve what your brain
says to grieve
It’s easier to do this in water;
it’s cold language speaks
until you are humbled
Beneath its wetness
you feel you could live
another thousand years |
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Born as bubbles rising
from detritus
enriched with deathings,
balanced on the plane
between sky and water,
we need this which holds us up
and that which presses us down.
This is where we live
until the separation
and are pulled away
from what we knew
to what we know is there. |
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sweat scrimmed forehead, drips down ribs, between thighs
stinging into crevices you forgot you owned
limp bedraggled hair, limp bedraggled mind
cool water
cool water
cool water
cool melon cool cucumber cool tequila
it hurts to wear
clothes, lace brash, textured cotton scrapes
hands too swollen for rings, earrings tarnished anyway
feet too swollen for heels, cobbled streets and flat sandals
as you slip and slide, you become inelegant and irritable,
dying, you say, for a drink
cool water
cool water
cool water
river and rock, river and rock, river and rock
10,000 lakes 10,000 lakes, 10,000 lakes
don’t look back don’t look back
all I wanted was cool water cool water
but then all the missing all the missing all the unraveled edges
all the unanswered questions
the lazy days of summer
will never be the same
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Calcium-rich water soaks her,
brings the feeling of butter to her nerves,
bundles her in peace and slides past her all her histories,
smoothing the roughness of filed words and raw imprints.
In the darkness of this water there is nothing not round,
nothing cornered or with curled, sharp shavings,
no unkind memory or thought.
Look at her - face pressed into the air,
happiness extending into fingertips of another.
Her body speaks the language of resting gravity,
as does her silent lover's:
the worlds that flow through their fingertips
are more felt than all the planets of the galaxy,
more permanent than any granite or feldspar
though together just a hair's length of a sunrise. |
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It wasn't that I was dead
Just too long untouched
Until
You took my hand |
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Water rises over my body
immerged slowly so not to miss any of the feelings,
the emotions its touch brings.
My black satin slip glimmers even more underwater,
dances around my body,
suspended away from my chest,
my skin that curious wants its touch.
I can hear all sound muffled.
Voices melting within the liquid that surrounds me
creating a voice of its own.
The water, courts, licks my jaw,
but my chin remains high above the surface.
Temptation to dip deeper, feel completely embraced,
surrender to the liquid holding me is great,
but obliviousness has no face nor story
only the one we attribute to it.
Not today.
Today I still hold on fingers extended toward me,
a warm lifeline made of skin,
the touch of life.
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