nina turns 60

untitled day 31 (for greg)

I see the trail left by your fingers
in the water vee away and disappear.
It is quiet, so quiet that we hear
the raindrops fall on the river.
We eschew the paddles
let the slow current take us
past ragged pines and cattails,
shuttered cabins and
large outcrops of boulders.
We close our eyes
turn our faces to the sky
and drift.

untitled day 30

The audacity of the surgeon
to take a thin blade
and draw a line of blood.

What do you learn
when you rummage
beneath the skin?

Is there some essence
in the sinews and veins,
a secret in the palace of bones?

Do you sometimes hesitate
to stitch it all together,
longing instead to remain
inside its pulsing refuge?

morning double dactyl

Sitting here drinking a
hot cup of Yirgacheffe
filling my body with
needed caffeine.
Hoping that soon I'll feel
oodles of energy.
Coincidentally,
house must be cleaned.

mourning poem

I can no longer remember
all that I have lost,
the people betrayed,
the good intentions
gone astray as easily
as puffs of seed on the breeze.

If I rolled up my failures
like a snowball packed hard
and built a tall snowman,
to let the sun melt it slowly,
would I be forgiven
or merely transformed?

Let the water gather
in the hollow places
gently rising, let it
form gulleys and canyons
through the willing earth,
let the clouds become
dense and quicken,
rushing across the sky.
Let the rain fall softly
into all the thirsty mouths.

morning poem

I am not grateful
for the sound of rain
through the drainpipe. I am
not grateful for
the rustling of claws
across the roof. I
am not grateful for the buzzing
alarm that sounds again
every ten minutes
until I get up.

All I know is the soft rush
of your breath,
the stillness of your limbs
making lumpy hills and valleys
beneath the covers,
the anticipation of a groan
in protest when I gently
say your name or
place my hand
on your shoulder.

Standing in the kitchen
making coffee while you
pour milk on your cereal,
then I become something
close to grateful
but much heavier,
like a boulder in a river
that diverts the flow
but is slowly shaped
by endless rushing water.

miracle

Standing on thin crescent moon
in her green robe,
golden rays bursting out,
the miraculous rose petals
falling all around her,
she doesn't fool me.
She's no virgen.
Every time I pray to her
I end up with my lips pressed tight
to some smooth-skinned boy's soft mouth
my fingers tangled in his curls
his breath hot and quick,
ay, guerita.

Tell me your secrets, virgencita.
Who really came
to your room at night?
There was no annunciation,
no Gabriel from heaven,
was there?

How did you make them
believe? Foolish men
who know nothing
about the love of a woman,
her body, what mysteries
she contains. It was easy
after all, to convince them
of your crazy story,
despite the facts of
biology. Better a miracle
than the messy truth
of your desire
made flesh.

penelope

I write a poem
the way the Penelope
sews her shroud,
each stitch tight and even
like babies teeth,
in order to stave
off the inevitable,
in order to keep at bay
that which might distract
or seduce me.

If I unravel my lines
at night and write new ones
each day, taking care
to place each word stitch
just so and to keep my
fingers from the pierce
of the needle,
can I bring back that
which has left me?

untitled day 24 (for nicky)

I am ground down, a nubbin
a stub, worn bit by bit
each day, dulled.
But you
they carved up like prime
rib on a board.
Not knowing anything else
to do, they just sliced
off whatever held
the disease
or the potential
to carry it.

Of all things
done to you
this is the one
you could not
forgive.

 

villanelle of the doubting poet

I wonder why I try to write a poem
when all around me chaos reigns the day.
Instead I think I should just sit at home.

A wildness in me makes me long to roam,
inside my head the words lead me astray.
I wonder why I try to write a poem.

Beneath a sky that arches like a dome
with rhyme and measured rhythm I might play.
Instead I think I should just sit at home.

When evening comes, a whisper from the gloam
invites me out to frolic if I may.
I wonder why I try to write a poem.

Beside a roaring sea all white with foam
I am inspired by the things I'd say.
Instead I think I should just sit at home

Is more excitement found inside a tome
than wandering the world from peak to bay?
I wonder why I try to write a poem
Instead I think I should just sit at home.

Day 22, untitled

I would like to clear my record
expunge the details
reorganzie the facts
place things in a more pleasing order
tease out the minor flaws
in your perception
of how things went down.

Perhaps we could go back
have a do-over, start
from scratch, with a clean bowl
and a new sack of flour.
Get our hands dirty, rub
the butter in. Go more slowly,
take a minute to savor
the sweetness of the light
through the kithen window.

But once the pie is in the oven
you have to eat the slice
that ends up on your plate.
There is no deconstruction.
It's been cooked, the heat
has changed everything,
sugars caramelized, something new
created and then consumed.

Memories will tell you lies
more than I ever did.