When I remember my mother happy
I go back to her emerging from brambles,
a loaded bucket keeping her from dancing.

It’s been low tide
for a while, the beach
parched. Seagulls search
for salvation from starvation

As with all creatures the flow of my veins carries a measure of tears in the flat hand of night but in this light the daybreak wears the skin of my dreams and holds me, not without her own sadness

I still have
glimpses of her -
mouth wiped
on a soiled sleeve,
snow falling
on a February day,
trees etched
on a blouse of blue.

today, i am unemployed for the sake of bitter rest, sat at
a bar drinking my savings, considering the chattering
through my spine that might happen
if i place a blue lilly in someone’s
hair, the woman who is still
my secret

She waves to them, smiles even in her sleep,
never learned to cook, lost her hair in
menopause, uses a cane for mushroom
hunting even when on wet days the tip
sinks in with the weight of her limp till she’s
bound to fall on the soft ground, lying in
wet leaves and giggling like a girl.

Cold in December, dry up, but flared up with the fire of love, dancing bud catches the rain and knows that there is no death. It melts with moisture on the tongue and the gums are his bed. Probably there is no beach, probably there is only one blizzard in my head.

stacking boxes again
this realization the burning
bush this moment this you me

and yes, I love this life that I have
built, slow mornings and love that keeps
me warm, but a thrum beneath my
breastbone may always sing
for the chaos that I learned to call
home, for that eternal yearning
for something, anything to burn

I’ll plunge into the Loing or the Seine itself,
into ultramarine and cobalt blue
I’ll wade into the waters of Giverny,
lie amongst the water lilies
madder red and cadmium yellow against emerald,
violet waters

hallowed and hollowed, richly bred for pain—
Anne and Sylvia shared a New York taxi in the rain,
discussed therapy and where they’d left their latest
lipstick stains.

I shiver, understand as always
my teeth rotted and dull.
Even my father, that son of a bitch,
kept his bite until the end.
I was always ignored
last to marrow
flitching bits from
other’s old kills.
Earn your keep.

I will never know the zaftig bosom of a mother during a fever, incessant nag, the body swap, the unconditional love. We both lacked what we both lacked—both pulled into a whirlpool, a tornado, while everyone stood by and laughed or rubbernecked. Up ahead the cars will slow down for an accident. The firetruck, coppers, tow truck will spin lights. Perhaps help is only a call away.

I watched as you’d extend a palm beneath
A ripe banana, tenderly, as if
To ask permission. Or you’d let me tuck
Wildflowers into cleavage held aloft,
Slick, sweaty, suntan oiled, flecked with sand crumbs.

All I want is to keep you,
but you are still on the dance floor
and New York City feels like coming down.

An ephemeral march between

pitch black

and too much morning.

and sometimes I got cozy in a cold shower, afraid
of the air outside waiting to wrap around wet skin. And after,
I’d leave the lights on each night. You weren’t home,

and I would think, safe is a pretty term, a feeling to dream.

One purple crescent
sent into sky
where my blue cloud
wafts above, alone,
aware it’s been seen
yet lingers to be heard.

that’s one of the things it does
makes you think one thing

that leads to another thing
and soon the meadow is full

The bowl perfectly new
in a cupboard full of things unused,
bought in anticipation
of a grandchild never delivered

“I Am Composing a Song”
”Incompatible”
”That Ancient Village”