Indian Summer

Stain me like lightening,
blood, heartbreak. Spread
your scent on my thighs.
Light shines through
clouds, through emptiness

onto hills which unfurl
like green ribbon. Soon,
the darkness of autumn.
Soon, the thing that made you
will unmake you to remake
us. There is no

belief like mine,
no hands like
yours. Call to me
as a crow, a blue-black
caw caw. The blooming has
ceased, but still—so much
becoming. Sigh, touch
the inside of this.

_________

___

Let’s start

 

 

here: Locusts burrowed, holes
along the sandy trail. I count
the veins in a dead

one’s wings, coo
at the iridescence, the glittery
eyes. One day soon, I’ll point
a coyote den for you. Watch

your surprise. We’ll talk
in metaphor to decipher your
vim, my veracity, this verdant
place — until words
falter, until we’re speaking only

in tones. I could live
with robins, bathe in lakes,
pick apricots in July—I would be
happy like this. But

for you. Wisteria won’t
flower here; I’d rather the trumpet
vine anyway, a tower of small

orange announcements,
and when light strikes
a deal with the coming

night — then, I know I’ll
know and let the shine
blind me blind
me blind—

__

A Poem of Gratitude

On July 4, I received a text message that read, “Congratulations to the three of you.  Lots of love, Aunt Kay.”  Well, I don’t have an Aunt Kay, and the only “three of you” in my life is me, my dog Pepper and my cat Chile.  But I knew who the text came from:  my ex-fiancee has an Aunt Kay.  And so this is how I heard that Aaron’s wife had their baby, a son they named Maximus.  This was exactly a year and six weeks after we split.

More than anything else, I feel gratitude that our lives took us in such different directions.  We are better people for having loved each other, and better people apart than we were together.  And I know love in a way I didn’t know I could:  without selfishness, without needing to “possess” a loved one.  I wrote this poem last night, driving home from dancing with some wonderful people on the plaza, watching the moonrise, feeling unbelievably blessed for this thing that is my life.

 

Gratitude

(after Anna Swir’s “Thank You, My Fate”)

 

I’m unworthy, how

beautiful my life,

how simple the moonrise

over the mountain, music

drifting through the plaza,

the smiling dancers.  How

honored I am to

have loved you, now

loved by another, I no

longer cry—that is for

your son to do.  I cherish

our moments, I give you

away to happiness

that is now yours,

that is now mine,

that is ours, apart—

with gratitude.

 

________

Each from Different Heights by Stephen Dunn

(i’m just realizing that i stole from this poem recently….it’s one that is ingrained in my mind.)

 

That time I thought I was in love

and calmly said so

was not much different from the time

I was truly in love

and slept poorly and spoke out loud

to the wall

and discovered the hidden genius

of my hands. 

And the times I felt less in love,

less than someone,

were, to be honest, not so different

either. 

Each was ridiculous in its own way

and each was tender, yes,

sometimes even the false is tender.

I am astounded

by the various kisses we’re capable of.

Each from different heights

diminished, which is simply the law.

And the big bruise

from the longer fall looked perfectly white

in a few years.

That astounded me most of all.

 

____________

a hypothetical poem

i’ve been thinking about whether i could be a woman who “takes a lover,” someone who i knew would not be around for long, someone who, say, was moving away soon.  could i have such a love affair (i feel very liz taylor just writing that!), and let go when it’s over?  here’s a poem about this hypothetical situation.

 

 

A Metaphor for You

                        When I see your sloped shoulders, I remember why

                                    I’m here.  You worry about your bad

            eyes:  how would I hunt

if I were a caveman?  Oh, when I see

            the sadness you carry like a suitcase, I think

                        I could love you, and so I’ve made

            an appointment to have my sharp

tongue filed into a softer ridge.  As we

                                    sat through my nephew’s baseball

                        tournament, I saw you

                                                            in all those little

            boys with the scrunched

            brows of old men as they hoped not

                                                so much to win,

                        but to not be the one

who fucks it up for everyone else.

            Can a team consist of two, or is that

                        just a duo?  You know we don’t belong

                                    to each other; we belong together, but

you’re, too soon, on an eastbound

            train to a glittering and windy

                        city, so I might have to rethink

                                    such logic.  Here’s a fact:  the electromagnetic

                        energy surrounding the heart is ten

                                                times greater than that which

                                    surrounds

            the brain.  This is a metaphor for you

                        to decipher.  I’m just here,

                                    now,

                        to write poems, to play your spine

            until August ends.

 

___________

Letter to a Stranger

 

 I keep a tryst

                        with myself, folding

            poem over poem

                        into my body,

            into my mouth; daily,

dismantle the silence

                                    I’ve created, a new child

            hood, placing the soft

angles in a basket

next to the hummingbird

                                                nest.  It is the summer 

after a winter that lasted

         well into the spring.  I have

                                                grown

            my hair long.  Certainly,

                        you will read this.  When

            you love me.  And you will

love me

well—a want,

                                    no longer a

            need.  Can you see

her patience?  That one

            egg, translucent.  After

I meet you, I will

                        long without you.

She’s spun a nest—

                                    mud and animal hair and dried grass.        

But I am not

lonely alone.  Breathe in,

            the peaches are almost

                        ready.  

The birds have

            left them.  For us.

___________

Let Birds by Linda Gregg

(oh, this poem is just so sexy, so hopeful, so perfect for this summer.)

 

Let Birds by Linda Gregg

Eight deer on the slope
in the summer morning mist.
The night sky blue.
Me like a mare let out to pasture.
The Tao does not console me.
I was given the Way
in the milk of childhood.
Breathing it waking and sleeping.
But now there is no amazing smell
of sperm on my thighs,
no spreading it on my stomach
to show pleasure.
I will never give up longing.
I will let my hair stay long.
The rain proclaims these trees,
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be
between us. Let joy.
Let entering. Let rage and calm join.
Let quail come.
Let winter impress you. Let spring.
Allow the ocean to wake in you.
Let the mare in the field
in the summer morning mist
make you whinny. Make you come
to the fence and whinny. Let birds.

_____________

Dear You,

 

 Between us, a vista of mangled words I tried to form              

            into the right sentences.  Striking

                         my face,

the full moon, 3:07 a.m.  Words

            amiss.  In the kitchen,

                                                crickets

keep me awake.  Calling.  But I am finished

                        writing.  You.  Streaks

of blood, on the floor.  If the cat brings me

            one more baby bird, I will

have her

                                    depawed.  My mother watched him exit

            in a dark suit.  Please burn

the letters.  Six bottom teeth, missing.  Layers

                        of skin peel away.  In a dream.  Please

burn the poems.  When I saw you.  My grandmother watched

            him exit in a dark suit.  Please.  Make me.  Stop

begging.  Words garbled.  All dead

            under my care.  The barbed wire fence.  Stopped

                        us from going

further. 

When I thought you were.  I tried to save

            the robin, the dove, the hummingbird.  You must

            know.  They

were for you.  I am ashamed.  Of myself.  For this. 

                                    For this.  Words don’t

                        mean

            to you.  Such an eyeful.  Of blinding

            silver.         You are.  

So cold, that wind. 

                                   My gone father. 

I shivered, shoulders

bare.               

                                  My dead brother.  Oh, I

knew.  And this is

                                    why.  I let you

                                    stay.  Too long.  It is the

hummingbird who squealed loudest, drowning

            in noise.  I tried to save them.  I

really tried.  You drink gin and tonic

            with a twist. 

Of lightning.

            The dark clouds

                                                           buckled.  In the open

desert.  As we ran downhill, sandstone crumbled under

                                    our feet.  When I thought I

                        could.  Love you.  Something

in my care.  Will eventually survive.  Hiking despite

thunder.  But you are not     

                        mine.  To save.  I could have been. 

            Struck.  By something

            terrible.  Again.

 

_____________________

No More Miss Understanding

When he may have said, I’m hungry,
yawannagotothestore? she
may have heard, I’m horny,
yawannaclosethedoor? but
they never spoke

again. Autistic babies can’t hear
high tones, so the coochie-
coochie-coos of their mothers
sound like guttural growls; meanwhile,
people go about making new babies

because it’s the next item
to be checked off. And the flat
affect? That’s the actual face

of fear. Between warring factions, for
every action there’s a reaction to the small
infraction of the distraction (despite
the inaction) of what we
say or don’t say or may
say so we don’t say
everything that we could

so that we can say later, oh,
you misunderstood. Is this clear

as mud so far? More and more, I’m
astounded by the false
kisses we’re capable of, and
I’m astounded by your inability
to show that something
said with honesty
might mean to you.
Luckily, I’ve bruised much

blacker than this. And while the increase
of Botox has led to an increase in domestic
violence, we verbal heavy-
weighted women will be just fine
because sweetheart, my mouth

could kick
your fist’s
ass. Want to make your message
cloud and leer? Just say

nothing.

 

 

__________

Poem by an Honest-Mouthed Woman

(because i’ve been stealing from dean young again.  and sandra cisneros.  and tony hoagland.  and mary oliver.)

 

Don’t think for one fucking instant
that I don’t have a broken heart, but don’t
think that it has anything

to do with you. Or
you. Or you. Don’t think that another cliché
isn’t on the tip of my

cat got your tongue again, honey?
There is no use blaming God
for a world where children go
hungry, just as there is no use
hoping that any of you
might have been able to say

something. Don’t think that I don’t think
about those children as I eat brownies from the pan
with my fingers. I’ve spent the last few years
auditioning a series of tall
men: Magicians, all, with a penchant for The Great

Disappearing Act when an honest-mouthed woman
speaks. Why can’t I be content to just look
pretty instead? Alex tells me, forget
the handsome ones. The awkward
will treat you with more kindness. Meanwhile,

the rain falls out
of season. Meanwhile, a sheet
of ice melts quietly, plotting a permanent
takeover of third world land. Do you want to hear
the truth? I love to run

stop signs and I love that catalpa
flowers wilt and fail
to scent when I pluck them. I long
to hear the ocean again. I
long to remember the voices

of my dead friends.
Do you want
to hear the real truth? A hummingbird lands
on the feeder to suck
more and more of the sweetness

I give, so freely, and I want
to capture it between my palms
and crush it into dust. The real

real truth? The only thing I’ve ever
longed to hear is,

you have the most beautiful

mouth I’ve ever
heard. Honest.

 

________