Over the Back Fence

She Sounded Younger on the Phone

flitted pleasantries we plan
a PTA drop off
old town near southwestern
university to maple
14 to 13
zoom in google map
soon she is right there
apartments over the privacy fence

hey I could lean out my window and yell
babysitters and playdates
train tracks and feral cats
we spin flirtation on common dust

Do you have animals?
Just a dog.
No, like a wild animal or something
that makes a strange noise.
Oh.
That.
That is my son.
Ummm.
Yeah.
He makes strange noises.

I laugh make light of trampoline screech
and dirt-juggle holler
swing-set hooots
whoops and shriek of
“something not right” cries
(no not a normal cry more like
like an animal yes)

sometimes
(sorry)
sometimes I
I I can’t bring myself
to quiet him
hide behind screens
choose release

(she sounded prettier on the phone)
no coffee no playdate
no first friday stroll
just us wild animals
picking pecan shells
flicking them at the fence
spinning face up till even when we fall
big big sky keeps on turning
round us all

Last Pages

Last Pages

Father’s computer is obsolete.
Can’t Skype with grandchildren in Mexico
or upload photos aging in his camera.

Something stops him from
making the move. It is not
money. Perhaps a hesitation
before building that first step
up a new flight when the sky
is already in sight.

Nana never bought green bananas on
Saturday. Always figured this would be
the weekend good lord would take her up.

floor-time therapy

Floor time therapy

red block blue block
green green blue
repeat rows

if I had more squares
I could top these rows to 100
counting by nickles 5,10, 15, 20, 25, 30

five fingers count touch count
red blue green green blue
mother-lady does not understand
and hands rectangle
“No, square! No square!”

mother-lady does not understand
hands me dinosaur, “No no no!”
Makes it walk my wall sing baby talk
here I come a-walking on the wall
interrupts my count!

red red green green blue

mother-lady hands me yellow
“Go away go away go away!”
but she stays, she always stays
eye water distorts her face
I fix it with my sleeve
shhhh

red blue green green blue red

she sneezes a blue square
from the top of her head
“heee! more!”

sneezes again, red falls
I line it up, look up, point point
wait for sneeze drop green
waiting for us always
to always know
what comes next

Breaking the Seal

We leave lids loose,
wait for the accidental spill over onto
carpet and hardwood and other such things
meant for walking.
Feet planted,
knees soften.

With oil paints and mocha
you fill my whims. Pollack style
we lean over rain-drop lily pools,
draw meaning from rippled rings.

Could it be you?
The answer always
gets shaken to the top.
Could it be you? The one
to kiss blue waters without
disturbing the image, the one
to make me believe in stray voltage
and steel desk magic?

As always the answer rises, highly unlikely.
But why not? Even if only for the thrill of
gooseflesh shoulders as strong hands
clamp wrists, open fingers. Tonight
we leave lids on tabletops, wait.

Something Missing

the risk-thrill
possibility of (oh god) another boy
in our tribe- keep the numbers even
of course three is more than enough
for this planet to sustain but still

I hate this squiggly wire
that squishes all hope of fetal implantation
and with it the slow dissolving fun
out of fucking

Katydid’s Song and the Possibilities of Plurality

Up from birch ghost perches
green chirpers call for insect love.
Katy-Did! Katy-didn’t.
Katy-DID! Katy-didn’t.

Metal spring of identity
rebounds harmonic motion
“good girl-bad girl” motion
until eventually
Miss Katie’s Did’s outnumber “Didn’ts,”
“Would-never-do-that-evers” and even the
“What kind of sick motherfucker would even want-to-do-thats”

Yes Sir. Pleased
to meet you. My name is
Mrs. Him, mother of Them

but not tonight. Here we count the beats,
calculate the temperature.
We follow and swallow each others songs
with names on tongue invented.

Katie, my name is Katie. Or did I say Jenny?
Kiki? Anna? And you lover are
usually David, Roberto, or James.

We call each other out by scent
and slippery trials of distinction.

Green wings chirp from behind tinted windows
of a plural anonymity.

p.s. please don’t let me get what I want

p.s. don’t let me get what I want

blind tightrope walker seeks cartographer
chiromancer or catalytic converter
for mutual mental masturbation

interrogation skills a must
let no words be safe

your hands: 12 string enormous
your hands: wrap stars on a wand like spun sugar
your hands: never fumble for the key

me: self-loathing narcissist, side-swipe dreamer
kiss me backwards make me forget which way is up
bring ice water, clean towels

must read minds, palms, a compass
must coast clouds during stretches of silence
and seduce other women in plain sight share

kiss start each day, tackle wild beasts in the attic
lie to me when you need to which is often (agreed)

helpful if you suffer spontaneous amnesia
and can fuck me like you would a stranger
long adored from the doorway

Breakaway Halter

truth be sold
in tight-wrapped innuendo
aimed at your growing point of adoration down
to the low ache that grows between
flesh and the deep blue yes
you unfold easy under my three finger release
there, there easy
your attention: mine

hard would be holding you with urban sprawl
spring blossom longing river-blind sympathy
that would be a challenge
no my moves bend cheap like short skirt tightness

come back baby show me your middle
riding crop persuasion
end-table my back
cold coaster condensation
drips down my breasts
flick flies with my tail
try not to whinny
until you tell me speak, speak

gingered we rise from the sting
head pulled back like Black Beauty and the aristocrats
it is always the neck that aches in vanity

how you will come to me? tightrope?
my chair: one legged
my whistle: sharp
what mythical creature will you conjure
braided ties purple ribbon
tell me lover when will you come to me?

Friday morning flagstaff half mast
where head stone lies
above foot board elastic

barn swallow mud in beak
soft feathers for lying
I will feign broken wing for you
draw cat’s attention with my song
my lover just tell me
tell me when

Five Wagons of Hickory Nuts

Five Wagons of Hickory Nuts

They tell me, It’s like your whole life
was getting you ready for this.

My son makes leaves rain, his voice
growls a low thunder. Eyes closed,
I fall away in time, into the spin
of the teal princess. Our gown fills,
long sleeves float like ribbons.

Today we fill five wagons with hickory nuts
one bucket at a time.

They tell me, God gives special children
like him to people like you for a reason.

They tell me, You are a Saint, woman
I could never do it.

In my sister’s closet I studied the diagram in
“Our Bodies, Ourselves,” squatted over the mirror
like they said and touched places that were
supposed to feel good, wondering when
it all would start to happen for me.

We fill five wagons with hickory nuts.
We use two hands.
We use one shovel.

The baby calls me “Mommy Princess”
but I have never been that sure.

Tungsten Hum

Rachel does have a
long lovely neck, I
imagine stretching it out
like a gooseneck lamp
twisting her vertebrae
to swivel that pretty little face
in whichever direction might be convenient to us.

Glow, pretty girl down from screen,
lift lips this way
soak between our edges.

My fake accent falls on the wrong
syllable, mis-speaking name drops
of golf legends and Oscar winners.
Still we move slow without carts,
push blocks and props under
darkened spotlights.

Remember how you found your way inside
once by teeth
once between lips?

Rachel called. She wants her priest on the beach back.
Her scene worn from our rewind
as my denim skirt and v-neck tee becomes
ashes-of-roses crepe georgette as your hands
slide under, forbidden
love just a twist of lime.

You slide lamb skin sensitive,
your hum vibrates up from chest,
this swarm of you once inside.