Those were dancehall days,
at 2am between brick buildings
with all the light focused outward
while we hid behind clear glass.
What could they see?
Wild smiles and disheveled spirits,
thumping it up against the old desk,
knocking over the banker’s lamp
in our zeal for excess and music.
Those were days of harried flight,
the crushing weight of pain
tipping the full cup of youth
until we spilled all over the floor-
a syncopated bubbly mess.
Soaring
Wondering how the gangly grace
of a heron calls to me,
I watch the feathers scratch the sky.
The lines spell a quiet redemption
but my sins are wider than this valley.
A stark yearning comes with dawn,
a deep screaming blue.
I want to watch him draw, move,
rake his mark across sunrise-
pale night fading from my skin,
light bursting through the trees
and over the water.
I think we could make the shape of grace
if we could brush wings a little as we fly.
oh I see you, brown cat
in a winter field
the taste of my sixth year
is fresh straw strewn over a sidewalk,
honeysuckle wrapped around a fence
twenty-four is warm sea air on my skin
today is a mixed-up winter
with mice-in-hiding
I think if I make it,
seventy-four will smell
like woodsmoke over the lake
Treeline
Sometimes, I wish I could bend
like I think I used to, when
kisses became part of late afternoon,
when pecan blossoms were carried
on a spring breeze
I don’t mind the cold so much,
as we’re husks now and it’s winter
and the horizon has more space
for imagining
It’s vivid dreaming where sun meets hills
and moon caresses the valley like home
and it’s comforting to think it’s for me
The seasons are at home in my skin
and in the places I go in the treeline
Feathered and falling
A phrase including “dilemma.”
A bitter longing better reserved
for caves and evening birdsong.
An astounding lack
of choice between
facing a stark naked winter
or spilling a verdant belly.
He gave us both
(but for how long?).
When the rhyme fell from her lips,
it was like the sky cracked
just a little. Summer storms
were eons away but the reminders
lingered in every stolen kiss,
unable to be tucked in our pockets.
Emptied a bowl of refuse
pretending it was regret,
because we excel at pretending.
A bitter longing after birdsong.
Wondering whether to cry or sing
or fall or fly. Or if there’s a difference.
The Word Rummager 