Fiber

The less I eat, the less
I want. Starving, the soul
loses its hunger. In an empty
room, the space grows larger.
It is not enough to trim the fat,
we have to hit the bone. Leave
the bread & milk for those attached
by fibers of this world.

Because They Know

Why are the birds
singing in the hedge
so loudly?

I think they know
there is an afterlife
that's just as good

as this one. I think
they sing today because
they must.

The Dream Darkens

When you lie sleeping in an afternoon,
the world aging around you, remember
the way light recedes back into its shell;
how slowly it moves away from everything
it loves. You will find yourself grieving
in the shadows, nearly blind; the room
in which you dream darkening. Nothing will
relieve your sightless groping. Would I be
cruel to wake you while your dying?

The Blessed Can Save Themselves

From a small house on the hill,
a voice was heard saying "save me".
The bird bones in the yard whispering,
dead roses in its garden praying "save us".
Out in the streets, no one is listening;
their ears are filled with pennies,
their hearts are buried in shallow graves.
The only one who hears the cries for help
is God and He is busy saving sinners.

A Change in Weather

There are subtle changes
in the air- colder, louder,
the smell of snow. Less blue,
more grey. I see my face
in the outside window clearer than
a mirror, clouds behind me,
eyes filling up with darkness.
You are cleaning the fireplace
like a groundhog burrowing
into the living room. The glass
between us, a wedding veil.
When you lift your head to smile
at me, I know we will survive
another blizzard.

Glancing Back

I've asked him
to love me.
Like a wagging dog
who howls into emptiness,
then bites the hand
that will not stroke it.
I can't understand why
you push me aside.

I'm in a place
where the manicured lawn
turns into wildness,
a dark path into woods.
You have turned in the doorway
of the house as if catching
an animal in a ray of moonlight
then quickly go inside.

Love

What more can I tell you
about hell and fire; how good
it is to have survived it?
There are moments when the soul
forgets its dreams and puts
its hand back into the flame.

The Wolf

He was wild but
did not know it.
The freezing creek,
the ghostly snow, the iced
boughs cracking in the wind
were to him like Eden.
How could he know
the steel trap hidden
in leaves would be
his only knowledge
of humans?

The Color of Morning

At night, the lilies
are yellow at the hands
of the moon. Their faces
are closed, their eyes sleeping
downward in the midnight wind,
they dream of morning, of white
dresses and dancing in the sun.

Departure

The time has finally come
when I don't think of you
each evening or fear darkness.
I, who had become the darkness,
am turning towards light.
There, in the distance
is a wounded star dropping
from the sky.

The Party

Someone else has died.
It will always be
someone else until
it is you and you
will be the last one
at the party.

The Weight of Roses

I can hardly
tolerate my frailty;

my heart,
a wasting rose,

my spine
a breaking stem.

In this world,
there is more respect

for the dead than
an aging woman.

Dancing in Complete Silence

They say he is deaf. That his written word
became a beautiful voice, a silver ear.
That you could hear the ocean in a shell,
a child laughing on a swing, a brass bell
ringing, the rustling of bodies dancing
in complete silence. One man's deafness
is another man's music.

Dying Star

Where inside the mangled stone
are remnants of light, the fading
moss, the self imagining warmth?

One night, reaching through darkness
I touched a star. It was cold and damp.
Through my skin, its fading brightness,

like a dream of fire, reminded me
of a past life. There's not much more
to remember than what it felt like

to hold it in my hand.

The Vessel

No such simplicity
affords reprieve
as love. O golden
idol, cracked vessel
is it blood or water
leaking from the wound?

A Clear Blue

What is vulnerability? Does it
take a criminal to spot it?
There is some sort of materialism
required, because the dead are fearless.

Through a curtain-less window
an undressed child's face
is caught by light in such a way,
more translucent than sun,

more innocent, available.

In the heart of a child, there
are no shadows. No black or white
or grey just heat and flames.
Like summer on a clear blue day.

The Guns

Then suddenly BAM!
like a hammer striking
a bug. A metal fork
beating a drum, electricity
sizzling through bone.

Let's look at some hard evidence-

black burnt lines on wood,
jagged scars on the cloistered
red blood-pump, dark circling
birds in the nightsky.

Are they falling or rising?

Will they survive their velocity?
And so it happens so quickly, kills
quickly, hidden by clothes or earth
or time. BAM! BAM! BAM! goes the guns.

In Between

Not often enough
a good friend visits.
We are connected in
so many ways and some
so different. Will you be
the first to come or go-
definitely not. More
prideful creatures would
beg to differ. Let them
wallow in their plastic
pools with their underwear
on and a margarita. Even
the palm tree is rubber
and glue. I like to be
secret like cello music
played in the darkness.
Like walking in pajamas
through the midnight park
or drinking champagne
at the drive-in movies.
And though I won't be first
or last, that something
in between is good.

Like Me

I'm tired
of speaking of
humans. Surely,

there is some
forgotten species
that needs a language.

We could create one.

Lighter than a
molecule of feather,
shapelier like red dunes

in desert, strong as
tree roots wrapped
around eachother.

But will it smile
when it rains or snows?

Will it have a heart
that dances like a wind-blown
flower or a nose

that smells the lilac?

In my dreams, this beast
is nearly as inconceivable
as me.

The Bright-White Mushroom

The model of Hell
as Dante knew
was Hiroshima.

A child of ash
and bone and blood.

Like my child.
The flash of

a camera's bulb,
so bright, so bright

some might call it
beautiful, if they

hadn't lost their sight.

What savages
they were to us

and we to them.
Then came the mushroom,

its in-human heat,
poisonous powder,

thick black rain.
Which level of hell

are we destined for
if we do it again?

The Roses Are Lovely

You are soft and comfortable.
You are not for me. A bed
of needles, a tiger's eye,
a bruised, shredded flower,
my hair undone, dark & brutal,
a razor slit, a sharp, short cry.
I am damaged material. This is
the burning horse's back I ride,
the hunting wolf whose unforgiving
fangs are mine. Stay within
the confines of the garden,
they say the roses are lovely.

Jewel

He watches me as if he's hungry
or could he love me? Imagine

how the moon looks down upon
the beauty of oceans, she wants it

as a jewel, a topaz ring. But
cannot see the teeming danger

of jellyfish or shark.

At last she sees the rows of teeth,
the polished fossils, shreds of meat,

the mental image of a planned attack.
And so the moon, jewel-less fingers

is satisfied with diamond-looking stars.

Enchanting

I'm not new to this show,
I've seen the clowns, dancing
girls, the uneasy lion, rubber
bodied jumpers on their wires.
What does this mean? Because
I've loved, I've lost the feeling?

Because I've torn apart the toy,
found its nuts and bolts and wheels
I'm disillusioned? Perhaps,

it is the simple things, the flawless
egg, the empty box, the golden light
streaming through a window, the way
a hand moves, pointing to the star
preserves enchantment.

When It Snows

Where is your heart when
snow first falls delicate on
the heels of winter? Can't you feel
its strings cold and tighten?
And when it seems the sins
of summer are forgotten, the winds
begin. Never a bird whose voice
so frightening or wooden flute
pressed the lips of mourners
cause the limbs to tremble like
a tired vein, the soul to stretch
its tiny feather, its snow-covered wing.

The Shade of Love

First, it was the boy
with cement in his eyes.
I fell in love because
he could not see stars,
or ever understand the depth
of blue or green.

He took his stick, his
bodyguard dog, a light
I'd never seen on his face
and walked away. Terrible
girl who sees everything,
turning it to black & grey.

Now, the road has narrowed,
the little flowers smaller by
the wayside. For years, my own
lack of vision phlebotomized
the tiny vessels in my eyes.
They say that love is blind-
or should be.
,