Yarn Puppet

The saleswoman shows me where
the clear fishing wire
comes unattached here
and here for when the lines become tangled.

Funny, I have been pulling our wires
for years, unable to find a loose end.
I do not even remember how we started
but I do remember the shirt I bought
when we first met. The black clingy one
with a silver ring at the neck.
In the dressing room
I felt sexy again
as I slid my hands
down my waist as if they were yours,
over my hips, up across my breasts.

We promised: no edges,
let the weeds grow
over the walk. We promised:
no ties or knots. No wonder
I have yet to be able to weave our story.
Unpackaged, without instructions,
without a marketing plot, no tangle free dancing,
some kind of endless braid.

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.

Nursing the Drought

god how I wanted my body to bleed
like the big girls down there,
down there where it felt so good under tight seam shorts,
warm shower stream
and bareback pony yes
it was time to be a woman all grown in
but things were taking too long that sundown summer
when my first dance partner went away
away until September for the first time I ached
down there and this time decided to take
control
cross-legged on the carpet panties off
with barrette clips snapped over
flesh, plastic pinched between fingers harder
for the pain the pulse and sting I lined the pink folds
with purple bows and green butterflies perched
in punishment thinking maybe the blood will come
with the pain but no, nothing

clothespins line and expose
the layers between legs in the mirror,
maybe it comes from deeper in?

I studied my sister’s tampon box diagram
opened the paper quiet soft soft
so no one would hear my curiosity unfold
should I lift my leg over the toilet or spread my
knees and aim back towards the “anus” like they said
and what of this vagina vag-eye-na?
there right in the middle of my other “we don’t talk about that” openings
for what? shit blood piss I counted the three
with my finger, trying to find the muscle to push out the blood
make me a woman somehow
but fingers pressed deep and even the rounded handle of the wooden brush
did not bring the blood it just stung like hell,

no it took Michele Rosewood from across the field
feeling my breasts, checking for lumps like she saw in that magazine
and do I think it is that normal how our nipples hardened under the pinch?

More touching but no milk came out like it did with her Mom and the baby,
I knew it was no use I was not a woman yet
but still it was that day down her basement the blood came
she shrugged her shoulders
got me a pad
said you should go get new underwear
I waited for my Mom
to go hang out the laundry
so I could confess to her in private what happened,
my face still burning with shame.

when I went to bed early
unsure which way a bleeding woman
was supposed to sleep so I laid on my back
hands cradling my belly
wondering if there was a baby in there now
and if so how would I feed it without any milk

Meet me in the blind spot

Meet me in the blind spot

I almost said
“will you be my Valentine”
before remembering the month.

It is September.
Your women let corners of their paper hearts
show
like lace sewed under a hem
that pretends to hide a blush of surprise.

But whenever they stop to speak with me
they drop pet names like matchbook covers
wondering if I recognize all your numbers
and baby, I don’t.

Do we deny their existence
or snip the sashes of purgatory, spray clean
fingerprints marked in dust?

No, this is not jealousy
this is inbreeding.
So many skinnies to dip in one little pool!
No, this is not about bobbing or fishing
or pissing downstream.
Baby, I just want to know
will you be mine?
Suspend our disbelief and say it,
Mine
Yours

Paint my heart solid or don’t paint it at all,
jtell me to believe and I will.
Alive or gone, let us send out our ghosts
for pastries and tea, on to the west side coastline maybe
they will soak their skirts in a new ocean forget the way home
while you take me
alone.

Remind me again why we are here.
Solid and bent backwards your hand supports my spine
Feed me your evidence.
Love me blind September Valentine.

Limbo

You never leave me alone for long, my love.
Just when the bruises of the last fall heal
and soft ground molds the contours of my body,
just when I find sleep under the painted clouds that hover
motionless, you come back eager to try a new pair of wings.

This time you have plans to drop sandbag memories
so we can fly light. This time you promise
to hold tight all the way out.
I almost have faith this time will be different,
that your proposed love can save me.

But we know escape is impossible.
We had our chance. We lived it once
and still did not believe
there was something greater than this.

Lover, please. I will never leave this place.
Kindly sell your feathers elsewhere.

he held a second mirror so I could see myself walking away

he held a second mirror so I could see myself walking away

I know you
like the back of my
knee that I see maybe
once a week
with a razor and a rinse of warm water.
I know you like the buttons
up the back of my dress.

Our pulse points
have been neglected. I miss
that morning touch of perfume
slow down the side of my neck
and on each wrist, ear, elbow,
knee, ankle, like a daily inventory
of the most vulnerable skin
where flesh is thin and blood runs
close to the edge of me.

Do you remember how Steffi
would spray a fragrant cloud
and spin through the droplets
tossing the bottle onto the bed
with a wave right out the door?

I twist my hair up off my neck.
Wait for you to notice the buttons, undone.

Kicked from the Feeder

I pretend pretend pretend to remember how to find the words
to find that place in myself
that is not even myself
imagine if I find the right new wonderfuck
I will remember how to feel
right down into the carpet fibers,
how to be the water that steals heat from toes
sometimes I remember words
peninsula
parchment
christmas morning of course I am still there
I pretend I can still pull up the words kicked from the feeder
mourning dove collector
criss-cross connected it is a tie again
and again
I remember when
you’d let me win
when I believed that I alone could hold you
but I see you lie so lightly in all the pretty palms

for years I would not let the inside of my cheek heal,
it was a nervous habit
chewing chewing chewing myself from the inside
to feel in progress
and regression
progress and regression
champhor menthol cottonball
see baby how it healed over smooth

I promised myself I would not chase you
not while I can still see the octagon prints on my skin
where you told me to stop
stop
stop

and yes this is about you
of course it is about you
but he comes in sometimes
from five years back or yesterday and then
that one comes in to
but good and gone, gone!

and I pause, catch my breath
it is bad manners to mix men on a page, isn’t it?
at the very least risky with pronouns jumping possession
through time and flesh
Faulkner fucked up our character

so I write here
I am done with you done with you done with you
and mean
no,
not you
but him
and he keeps creeping in
I left a trail right into my brain
salt and pepper crumbs
I gargle him down and spit
him out because
no, he is not you

we all want to be wanted
yeah yeah tether me in
life jacket tie
I only want you
you know this baby
you my soft voice strawberry soother
you my growl hound ground tracker
with my scent on your nose baby
I put it there while you sleep so you can’t keep from coming back
and back my face falls weightless in your palms
again, again

I only want you
but something between my mind and fingers redirects my words
spray me with your territory
shake that long chain jingle
I thought I left my spontaneity in Arkansas
but someone gave it back
down to the ground like so many seeds