into wind

It was a matter of having to pee somewhere
so I cut up the logger’s trail
hold onto the red bud trunk
squat and piss there among the deer turds.

Of course I should have known I would not find you
along the paved trail. You told me two years ago
“Follow the deer path“
but I have always been slow to learn
fast to forget. I find your jawbone
teeth intact sun bleach white
where their feet step
over their own dead’s split
ribs with vertebrae on the north side
ball and socket joint to the south
the lower jaw in my bag.

A bird that looks like
our chickadee but smaller
and with a longer call cries
to me from the Live Oak. I
pretend it is you but it is just a bird.
I look for you as dragon fly and high root stair
and wonder how it came to this?
Looking for you in these stupid bird and bone songs
when I used to find you in my panties
adult store shelves, you would be disappointed
in these stories of moths sucking mud,
how here wildflowers still bloom in November
an what about the time you almost made me come
with nipples and a wish alone?

Your sugar deep cut and crystal
scratch cap nightmare grabbing my thigh
up over and god your homemade tie backs
catching the bloodflow yes
yes you scold you scold me down down
to where the river splits, say

Baby don’t you remember you used to ask my permission
to invite men into your fantasies
how you used to dress them in my barn coat,
red shirt, high string hiking boots
just to warm you up enough to even think about fucking
someone else still it was always me there admit it
how you posed them up in my language can you hear
that rhythm of my voice?
Can you move to my sounds
in anticipation god the anticipation
of the prayers do you still
respond to my suggestion or is it just tear
shallow sentiment that follow the two deer
as they leap across the path in front of you
crash through your laughter as you think
of the piss how I must have caught
the scent and
found you with blood rushed headward
dizzy
standing too fast
bare ass in the breeze
nature girl trying to zen me back home?
Damn it baby you know where I live bare back
cave painting palms pressed into the moss next time baby
keep the jeans at your ankles let the wind bring you here
where you left me cock in hand wondering where the hell
you were last night.

Catching up with the Dead

“Baby it has been so long,
what do you want to talk about?”
You blurt, Spaghetti Sauce
skitter out the door sideways,
knuckles down.

At first I laugh but now I understand,
you want me to tell you about
everything. How I still wait
until morning to clean up after,
noodles dried into brittle curls
pasted onto the table cloth,
wine evaporated into red circles
at the bottom of the glass.

You want me to tell you how the children have grown,
how they haven’t. How they no longer let me wet the napkin
on my tongue to wipe their faces. You want to hear the sound
of dishes clinking under water.

Do you remember the night
the baby woke up
crying for his lost balloon,
how the promise of other balloons
would not soothe him?
In your silence then, I could feel
your tears longing to spill, your lonely bones
wishing I could carry you up to bed
touch your hair, soak your aches.

He has forgotten about the balloon.
It is our memory now, one
that will not rinse easily.
I still watch for you sometimes
up, up out of my sunroof
your ribbon cut too short.

When I sing for my supper, You skip to dessert

When I heard how you copied the Persian poet,
I copied you. When I copied you
I developed a slow leak
in my passenger’s side.

We coasted along the rumble strip
selling autographs and lemon confections.

When I used the last of the ink and sugar
I melted the sand into sun spark prisms
that led us to our pot of gold.

When I bought back my voice
off the last barrow in a Persian market
I sang out Of Jewels and Horses!
For God, Mammon and Country!

And the poet-merchant replied
When I this, I that.
When I this, I that
and I told him a three time poet laureate
from the New World wanted to say hello,
thanks for the Samuari’s Song,
lemon bars, carbonated fruit punch, tea.

The Minister’s Husband

The Minister’s Husband

I dial Sunday’s phone
call for the muscians
call for the flowers
call for the woman who puts it all on paper.

Our minister’s husband is in hospice
and I take the pulpit
say the prayers
lead lead lead the people
from casserole and carpool.

We open our hymnals to number 90
All the Gods have been changed to One.
We sing Whitman and Emerson,
Pope, cummings and Dickenson
with piano rainsprings and fluted birdcalls
we sing if I can help one fainting robin
back into his nest again
knowing there is no nest
there is no stopping this heart from breaking
still we sing as if we believe
that we do not live in vain.

They took the minister’s husband into hospice
Thursday morning.
We hold our own hands.