nina turns 60

30/30 the end

Note: This final poem of the month is composed of the last lines from the other poems that I wrote during November.

I didn't even need to use my teeth
spiders hidden underneath comfort
this is when I know

(I) will be turned to stone
applause never meant a thing.

There is nothing left to bless us and send us on our way
anything that doesn't struggle in the sticky silk.

I'll take it, I'll take it all
or anything, really, that might sustain you.

What will we invent to give ourselves one more step along the path
like disposable razors?
Face as pale as his
firmly introductory,
better than that:
hundreds of millions of miles
steeped in grace

(which) results in starvation
and a soft glow of red.
The goddess of love regrets to inform you that she hates poetry
the pockets empty, the nest
to someone else.

29/30

When I got divorced
it was my mother
who cried herself
to sleep. Nobody wants
to grow up to
be an old lady. Venus
won't cross my path
again this year. I think
of Ada and her lady
horses; I think of Joni
and her constant
stranger. What was that
lyric? It seems we all
live so close to that line
and so far from
satisfaction.

I lick the salt from
my fingers and recall
the first time I kissed him.
I was 18, he belonged
to someone else.

 

 

28/30

The nest isn't empty, the nest is falling apart, the nest is a void, the void is unavoidable, the sacrifice imperative, the scars internal, the mistakes still take the breath, the newly feral heart hot and hungry, a starving cat, patience wasted on circumstance, tenderness spent like coins pressed into a machine that drops candy into a metal pocket, the pockets empty, the nest.

27/30 Venus Poem

The goddess of love is busy deflecting tear gas canisters.
The goddess of love needs to lie down.
The goddess of love can't remember the last time she had sushi that tasty.
The goddess of love would really rather not bother with the dishes.
The goddess of love has spiders in her hair.
The goddess of love resents her name being used for a human shaving device.
The goddess of love forgot where she put her keys, her lipstick, her grocery list.
The goddess of love wants you to know she believes in you.
The goddess of love resents less her name being used for a planet where the sun rises in the west.
The goddess of love doesn't have time to dust the blinds.
The goddess of love would like to fuck your brains out, if she thought you had any.
The goddess of love reminds you she can also grant military victories, but really, why would she?
The goddess of love really needs to lie down.
The goddess of love needs to get her groove back; what is her groove again?
The goddess of love forgot what she was going to say.
The goddess of love has something in her eye. 
The goddess of love regrets to inform you that she hates poetry.

26/30 Once Upon A Time

Rough voiced men with gentle hands
fingertips split like ripe grapes traced
a line of blood along your thigh,
your own blood dried by now, the iron
taste still at the back of your throat:
salt-thirst and the dull thud of memory.

"Here," you tell them, "no here," and they comply,
yielding to the imperative of the hollow.
But each passageway proves false, over-
grown with weedy thorns and brambles
as if cursed by a fairy tale witch.

Still they blow through like a winter wind rattling
windowpanes and the tap tap tap of loose screen,
their teeth not as sharp as they imagine, but oh
they can knock you over if you aren't porous
enough to let the air hiss through.

You practice in the mirror, turning this way
and that, brushing your hair until sparks fly
and yes, your reflection begins to fade
a bit more day by ragged day until
the only thing visible are the limp towels
hung carelessly to dry after yesterday's shower
and a soft glow of red.

25/30

The spider, she
cannot know me
except by the threat
I impose when I try
to scoop her
safely on a sheet
of white paper
out of my bathtub
so I can shower.

I wash the dishes
sharpen the knives
sort the laundry
darks from whites
inside my borrowed house
inside my borrowed life.

I know you can't forgive
that I could not keep
the promise I made
before I was a mother.

How can anyone know
what it will feel like
when the ground beneath
them takes flight, or how
to anticipate if they'll
land safely on the ficus
or be taken outside
to an unknown world
where even the best
possible outcome
results in starvation.

 

24/30 Venus Villanelle

Each morning when I look upon the sky
Bright Venus is the light I hope to see
I could not even try and tell you why

I crane my neck and send my gaze up high
Beneath my breath I send a quiet plea
Each morning when I look upon the sky

I raise my window shade and heave a sigh
Look past dark branches of the highest tree
I could not even try and tell you why

When she's there I have been known to cry
The sight of her now means so much to me
Each morning when I look upon the sky

The tenderness I feel is not a lie
There is no promise that it's meant to be
I could not even try to tell you why

When she's not there on what will I rely?
Her shine and sparkle somehow sets me free
Each morning when I look upon the sky
I could not even try and tell you why

 

 

23/30

Learn to be lost now/learn to shattered.
—Gabriel Kahane, from Baedeker
 

Last night it was Christmas
ships, boats lit up on the water
blasting seasonal music from
their on-board speakers, creating
light trails on the dark crescents
that oscillate on the surface
of Lake Washington, a line
of them, one after the other
slow-moving, shining, softening
my heart like beans you soak
overnight before you cook them.

Steeped

This morning I drove
before dawn to the home
of my dear friend to give
thanks, cook duck and Brussels 
sprouts sauteed in butter, and
as I rounded the corner
to cross over the bridge at
the Hood Canal there 
she was, Venus, in a new
piece of the sky, and I 
don't know why she is
the sign I need that life
is everywhere and vibrant,
that some joys require
darkness to shine, that
I am loved, but I will not
be ungrateful or question 
what is clearly an offering
given to me blatantly
steeped in grace.

21/30

Venus, ball of gas
hostile to all living things
sends pinpricks of joy
shivering through my mornings
hundreds of millions of miles.