Tea Morning

Even though it was raining
she tried putting the kettle back on
insisting that its blackness

would urge it to remain. The birds
laughed at her, taking wings
from their baskets to unfold

and watching the ivory settle
down on the indigo field. From heaven
someone opened the windows

to let the day out, and all
her buttons dropped to the floor,
clad as she was in nothing

but blue garnished from the sea.
He gave it back to her, rubbing
his knuckles on the concrete

kneading it into play so that
the moths wouldn't get stuck anymore.
They poured tea from their mouths

shooting back dirty looks from their wings
but they were always cranky in the morning.
She still lifted the table to look

for droppings that would suggest presence
a company to hold the house down
from flying into the wind. Oh well;

nothing could keep her from singing at day
even if the kettle wouldn't stick
to the stove and the cat wailed to stop dreaming.

nothing like a food poem

Eating

He ate poetry
                 out of the weird, glorious curve
           of her arm.

Strawberries made him hungry
                              while she starry-eyed
       questioned him, picking

pistachios from his ears,
                               saying, eat. Dear figs
            tumbled shortly from her lips--

her lips that said eat.
                          Dried slices of bacon crinkled
                the corners of his mouth;

smiling sausages revealed
                                 his dimples.
                Eat, he questioned,

drawing tenderized chews
                                from her flesh, remembering
              to say, eat. Remembering

to touch the dates that gathered
                        in her knees, remembering
             to eat the soft, knowing

dishes that they offered
                                  in silent light
              to one another.

Love poem

I'm looking
for the man with figs
in his ears.
He can give me
clementines
for my heart. He
has the creamy
moon in his pocket.
I'm hungry for it.

The woman with
the coral braids
told me I might
find him, sitting
on the sea.
I had to shake
her broken shells
on the ground
and whisper ash
over them, praying
to the dusky fire
for love and penance.

When I found him,
it was as if he made
himself from shell,
brittle and hard.
He held up
a mirror to my face,
and looked at it
in another behind me.
He smiled. The man
with the figs
in his ears, the man
made of shells.

Beginning of a long poem...

i.
        He was something loose at the edges he was
all untied and open         at his perimeters his

waving borders so loose         in the wind fitting

that he would look so fly away           so somewhere
absent from here where you saw him

ii.
            These are the branches that came out
of his mouth his voice                bloomed with trees

dogwood and mistletoe              tumbled from his
vocal strings                   minute wires clung to trembling

green vibrato                      But he spoke through nets
of leaves often             his voice caught
                                in the foliage

iii.
           Where did you come from dark-eyed waif?
Wanderer where                      did you ask the sun

for directions with                  his hands clasped he's
holding moon under his tongue            --tree man

so inexorable                               in his carcas why did he
loose his ivory tongue                     on the hills?

The crows crawled up then                             they dug
their hooked wings                        into the earth hard nails

that scratched on limestone                         Toward him
black smothering rings                             spun slow ascent

but he was in the desert                        the implacable
desert and the open                               --which was like

a door--was more                                the frame of his
wilderness than                                  the scrawling emptiness

No one reads this anyway...

Woman on 2nd St., Reading

The women are gathered on the street to dance.
Their hands pull flowers from the median,
raking them together with yellow scissors.
Their coats are full as though stuffed with birds.
                               
Their hands pull flowers from the median,
a simple form of currency that smells lovely.
Their coats are full as though stuffed with birds
and their pockets are filled with roots and birdseed.

It's a simpler form of currency that smells nice,
and it'll get a cracked teapot at Sadie's.
Her pockets are full of roots and birdseed
that she hands to the woman, her hands to hands.

She'll get a cracked teapot from Sadie's
and she'll make tea in it from Second Street flowers
that she handed to the woman, hands in hands.
Her hands are the ones that dug the flowers.

She'll make tea from Second Street flowers,
and pour it in the birdbath on the roof.
Her hands (the ones that dug the flowers)
are wide like spades, cold at evening.

Pouring tea in the birdbath on the roof
she'll dream of baths & touch her hands,
wide like spades, as cold as evening.
The birds are dancing on the Second Street flowers.

She dreams of baths & touches her hands.
Tomorrow, the ground will be just a bit colder.
The birds will dance on the Second Street flowers.
The women will gather on the street to dance.

to Dad

Considering things I never saw

Scream

When I tried to throw myself in
after her

they held me back, clinging
hands of life

moaning to my stretched skin
to remain with them

here on the mirror's side
of grief.

And there, of course, she was,
reflected boldly

in the clear light of the mirror,
moving as though

to ward off the movements
we made

on the other side of her jump
 .