I do not write you letters anymore

It was springtime when I lost you,
the sunflowers had just begun to sprout
and I described them to you
Look! two leaves!
now four!
I hesitated before writing you
of the cliche of life springing from dirt
like magic, but I could not help it. I loved you.
Everything was new.

I still wrote you after you were gone
taller than the fence, taller than my head,
Baby I wish you could see
their heads bend. Out of nowhere
Goldfinch appeared.
I snapped photos of myself hiding naked
behind the spiny leaves. Did you forgive me
for giving myself to him
while the flowers we planted
were still alive? The dirt of your grave
not frozen its first winter?
I cannot bring myself
to pull the dead stems
from the ground.

But I do not write you anymore.
Three seasons have passed
just like they always have.
This year sunflower seeds
kicked from the birdfeeder
sprouted in my flowerbed.
I pull them out by their hollow stems,
toss them behind the shrubs.

But it never lasts

It is easy to fall in love with you
to feel my silent longing soaked deep
with passion. Easier to float into your eyes that say
“I want you, come to me”
than to seek out those small moments
that flood emptiness with hope:
seedlings that sprout below the water line,
a child who struggles to invent the biggest
number “fifty thousand hundred” to describe
how much he loves you past the sun
to the blue house where we used to live
back to Baltimore.

It is easier to spin in motion picture tears
of some forbidden love than to feel
the desperation of sparrows
as the jay pulls their hatchling
into thin red strips.

Easier to feel my body whir and scurry
under the stir of another first touch,
a new breath to call me beautiful,
wonderful, wind storm of a woman” than to wait
for the rain to race down field
and soak my toes into a curl.
But it never lasts.

Evidence

photo by Douglas Gamrath

Evidence

1.

you come back to me on days of transcendence
like those days in January
we missed due to sleep
days I forget the hours
days months you have been gone

a crow dropped
your daughter’s gold necklace and cross
down the chimney
as we packed up your things
it sounded like something much larger
we could not make out brick echoed words

2.

your ex-lover captured you
in a tribute of voice-over photographic collages
barely recognizable
you do not move

3.

a young boy
climbed on the bench
next to a beautiful woman
kneeling close
he pushed the hair
from her face
and touched her cheek
he moved without ever taking his eyes
from her face

4.

an elderly woman wears breakfast
in stains down the front of her ruffled blouse
she watches the birds scatter for imagined crumbs
the wind blows hair into her eyes
she sees more birds scatter for imaginary crumbs

5.

you come to me
these days where all rises over impossibility
ozone sharpness raises the hairs on my forearms
electrons at my fingertips
wait for release

6.

the boy saw you stream down the storm drain
I know he saw you there
the way he chased the water
and watched it fall
and fall
and then disappear
but still it kept coming
still it kept coming
it must be raining
somewhere in the North
because still you keep running on down

Allowing this Swallow

Quick, slide in this orange print envelope,

hand barely escapes the double row

razor teeth of the fed-ex box.


Left arm rescued just in time-

sweater unravels
in a trail of black yarn
caught on incisor.

I think they were all incisors.

Muted street walking-
everything becomes a gaping mouth.
Hungry toothless metal gutters
with slow open lower lip.

Mouth stretches
like a door knocker gargoyle
trying to release the ring
from his under-bite.

Nearly fall into sidewalk open cellar
door to basement of Mezzapastos
where a single tomato crushed on basement steps
begs me to join him among boot-stomped lettuce-
but half smoked Winston convinces me
to consider the brick-lined storm drain
that sucks down ez wash soap scum
and broken bottle Busch spill
seasoned with bus stop tears,
all flow together, delta bound
tempting me to allow the swallow
and just go.

Published in Branches Quarterly and ‘remark

Express Line

it gives me a sick thrill
to toss the Astroglide
onto the moving belt
forcing pornographic images
into the minds of holiday shoppers

the motor hums and shakes
the box
towards their order,
…..closer
…..…..closer

red divider knocks over
their diet coke,
forcing the bottle
nose first through pastel toilet paper-
bubbles try to escape, pressure builds

and that is when he sees it–
…..my box
…..…..staring at him.

his eyes shift up to mine,
…..hold
…..…..hold
…..…..…..steady
don’t look away now
savor this nerve merge static shock thrill ride
of imaginations opening the package together, aisle 17

do not unlock this gaze while
he scans through cotton,
compass needle points south
as he dips, slips and slides in slowly
and again harder this time before returning
to my dangerous eyes.

Pulling his sweetheart
in a little closer,
he kisses the part
in her natural brown hair
pays in cash.