Old women repeat themselves

I repeat things
like an old woman

muttering to myself the phrases
of worn hours, shuffling shoes
in the dry stone

On Tuesdays
I take a train into the city

where I might not be heard
above drawn cacophany

sighing streets over
& over again

Old women sit next to me
on the train--women
who have never been mothers

She repeats me.
She repeats her phrases

to the street sighing
her perfection / an imitable mirror
brown mirrors that would be my own ghosts

They tell stories to one another
Of course

They don't know the way the streets
fill themselves / fill me
On Tuesdays I take a train into the city--

It doesn't matter why

so that small ceramic birds
might not light sharply / briefly

on my hands
I wear gray gloves
to touch smooth surfaces---

brown mirrors
They would rub away spots of discontent

infinitesimal impertinence
to light so sharply on my hands
my hands like brown mirrors

my hands are sighing streets
my hands repeat one another

phrase to phrase / Old women
sitting next to me
on the train

she repeats me / She has never been a mother
She hangs brown mirrors on her skin

warming them to her almond touch
repeating her phrases in sweet
assiduous songs

to the birds
and the brown mirrors

I am not listening / to her sighing
or her sedulous birds //

Something old, something new...

The Silent Poet in the Room

Maybe I
am the silent poet
in the room
though no poets
should be silent. They might not

know how to look at me
or what can be done
with a degree
in poetry.
So I am sitting down

and watching them move
about the room,
quite content
to watch their mouths,
the silent poet in the room.

They don’t know
that I might see the room
as blank pages,
prepositions
laid out with the forks on the table.

Woman lifts a verb
to her lips, tasting subjunctive
—would that she
could read
the adverbs perfectly lining the window.

It’s all so very nice
but where
did you put the questions
that might spark some interest?
Woman: Did you ever hear
of a man painting wings
on the sky?

Older Woman: Where
did you husband go
after he died?

Mother: Was it quiet
inside just before
you broke your heart?

Questions loaded
with complex clauses,
and I,
the silent poet in the room,
am churning them
for roots and verbs
to hang like charms
on my skin.

But then—
maybe it’s enough
for them
to let the dusk roll
into mere colors
and not observe the poet
in the room.

Still in progress & needing development. Thoughts?

i. he, loose and aloft, in the desert
        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 flyaway           so somewhere
absent from here                           where you saw him

            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

           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

so through the door          he stepped leaving

the crows to ground                 facing wilderness

and howling wind              all the sun ever said was that

he could climb             his own vines to find a resting

place that all the world               was simply a door

to the next moment                the next spoke of the wheel

he had never felt               so loose even the wind

was slow behind him                 the crows laughing

at themselves when he            walked through desert doors

keeping the moon               under his tongue so as not

to disturb the air             or perhaps keep the door open

propping it with                 the green branches swaying

from his throat                      he was sprouting

there on the desert’s          side of the open door

all doors are open                spaces that his moon-dyed

tongue might move                      through seeking

the path to sun                      the path to sand

rock limestone                         crawling beneath his feet

roots solidly wound                    into cracks

ii. The moon from under his tongue

I am sheltered in the under universe

of my hands

here all beginnings

are my roots all circles

ending in each other

I have harnessed the hills

in my veins I have caught

the nets of air in my heartstrings

I am both

the intertwining voices of male/

female even here

in the implacable desert

the broad unmarkable desert

my water runs deeper

and I open doors

like pearls that run on water

cleaving tenuous valleys

where trees grow where

deep drinking trees find water

deep drinking from my upturned hands

in half the shape of a wheel

in half the shape of a moon of water

each circumference fit

to the other each wheel

in a wheel moon

in a moon

under my upturned universe

gleaming under my upturned sky

& reflected in the sure disk

that I shed on the hills

even the impossible desert

that I might grow there a tree

to reach its branches up

& mingle with the facing sky

this is the song of the upturned universe the song of the bear

crow and serpent writhing in the grass

making shadows in the sand beneath my feet

under my moon tongue leashed

under my moon tongue

gathered in my moon and water hands

can you dance with me under the water sun ride

the hills with me unleashed

take my riven hands the ones with which I loosed the moon

loosed myself on the broken hills

to dance with bear and crow and serpent

here in the light of the crossed and silver moon

I wrote on the sky with my blood

and found poetry in the steeping stars

I bled poetry

from my heart I drew it

from my blood my seeping blood

my seeping poetry blood on the walk

on the walls

I wrote language on the stars

twisting them into sounds or messages

on the blue canvas sky

the sky of the

iii. wide implacable god

she brings water out of the upturned hills.

They are like bowls that she fashions in clay,

that she draws from her skin

stretched over her aching, spinning bones.

She is aching with song,

with the poetry of her blood;

she spills it

to mark her place in the ground.

She is flourishing there.

The crows are living in her branches—

she, the wide implacable god

of the desert.

Her abundant arms are livid

with thriving voices, white

as though they might burst

with the electricity of her singing.

taken from my grad school submissions

Ending Song of my Heart

I tied my life to a fishing line,

let it blow and lapse over

the edge of the boat, slipping

on waves that bent their heads

to mine. I watched

it fold into the water

so quickly,

and tenderly

the line plucked

and quivered on my heart—

for I had tied it fast

and tenderly to my watchful heart.

Blind in her ivory sea,

my heart tugged back

as though to signal

to my lifeline, strung

so precarious

into the sea.

I waited.

At last when the sun went down

the quivering stopped

and silently

my fishing line

remembered how to sleep.

For once I did not dream

Instead I counted pebbles

on my eyes, urging dark to lapse

and day to catch me up.

Nothing made a sound

except the quivering waves,

the practiced pace

of the sleeping sea.

Before I forgot my name

I carved it into a stone

and cast it

into the water

after my fishing line.

Nameless then, all

I had was depth—

profound and warming dark.

My heart

had long ago

resigned itself

to silence, succumbing

to the ceaseless murmur

all below.

Almost in memory,

I pulled

upon my fishing line,

but no response.

My fingers, perhaps,

were too cold or dreaming.

From within the dark,

I heard a ship pass, laden

with music, great with light.

And almost I saw

the lights expand before

the gentle sound of water lapping

at my fishing line

reminded me to sleep, forget

my heart.

mother leaving for prayer meeting

this is where           the dish towels go

on the left            under the washclothes

fold them so            leave that one out

to dry                 on the hook

the dishes                    can dry themselves

make sure              the cutting board leans

against the coffee pot              fold the rag

over the sink                         and turn all the spoons down

so the water doesn’t                stain

this is how            to make the coffee two

or three spoonfuls                of the grounds

one tablespoon            of cinnamon

or hazlenut           the filters

are in the pantry          draw the water

and measure it            in the cups one

spoonful for each        cup make sure

the pot is firmly              under the spout

this is what            the lord says

honor your mother         and father

keep the sabbath         don’t lie

or think badly            of others

have faith            and he will keep you

i’ve left             some cookies for your lunch

in the tupperware        on the microwave

don’t take        too many—I counted them

back to work last night; felt really good

December: Kitchen Prayer

Dish soap

clean rags

bleach white counter

eggs in a bowl

folded cabinet doors

upturned cup

on the stove

tea leaves

hanging in the air

roses strung

on white lines

of faith

still

kneading air

folded in white

linen in the cabinet

silver in the drawer

blue crocks

with wooden spoons

worn brown bowl

garlic sweet

tomatoes from the yard

light

the small candle

on the shelf

votive voca me

voca me

cum benedictus

amen

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