I need...

...this baby. 

Not a holy, Jesus baby, 

not someone sacred and sacrificial. 

No need for future parables

and making blind men see.

No, I do not need that baby. 

I just need to feel the babyness within. 

The small eager hands, the eyes searching. 

I need a belly-up way of being,

completely vulnerable, expectant, 

confident that I will be fed and loved. 

I do not need a manger or wisemen bearing gifts. 

The stars can be hidden beneath a cloudy midwestern cloak.  

My mother does not need to speak to angel, 

my father does not have to be a carpenter. 

In fact, he can be a retired banker with a smoker's cough. 

Please god, find me. 

Make me a muslim child, 

an asian buddhist baby with a big belly. 

Circumcise me following Jewish lore,

it does not matter. 

Just shed the years that hardened me, 

slough off the doubt. 

Take away my words, my walk, 

swaddle me in used muslin. 

Find me, sweet new me, and wrap me tight. 

  

sketchbook #2

If I told you what this is meant to be, 

you would laugh -- and by you, 

I am thinking of a specific person. 

So I will not tell you about the body, 

the seeds, the rooting, the strong cornerstone. 

I do not know if I believe what I believe anymore. 

Instead, I will point out the blue against the black, 

the interesting twist of turquoise against orange, 

the comfort of brown.  I will make you look at the green, 

yes, you would ask you to look at that a long while. 

Then I would take you back to Howe Elementary School, 

that huge art classroom in the basement.  

The teacher, whose name you cannot remember. 

I would take you back to the day 

when you were five and saw the color wheel.

When she talked to you about 

primary colors and secondary colors.

I would take you back to that exact second 

when you learned that green 

is made by mixing blue with yellow. 

How you folded the paint together and saw it happen,

this magic alchemy rolling together in so many shades. 

And I would ask you to remember that now, 

that green is made by mixing blue and yellow,

that newness springs -- in one quick twist -- 

from the deepest sadness finding its light. 

That's all it is, this lifetime.  

Making green.  So lay it on the paper, 

a big first grade blob of blue 

and turn to the brightness in your life --

that saint, that sanctuary, 

the new song that won't stop spinning.

Turn to the poet on Duncan Street, open that favorite book, 

eat three slices of warm pork tenderloin. 

Walk to the tree, hold the baby, 

do whatever it is, find whatever it is 

-- your yellow--and slather it in.  

Then start stirring, 

swirl one into the other, 

your sadness and your hope, 

until the new hue feels just right. 

homecoming

In the twenty three hours I was in the hospital, 

my front yard and porch were transformed into this. 

Have you ever seen anything like it? All love and sparkles?  

Gifts from my friends glowing me home. 

As someone who has easy grasp of words, 

and knows what to say in most settings, 

I fall silent.  All I can say is thank you to you, 

and thank you to God  for you.  How lucky am I?

we are

...the seeds, the water, the incremental growth. 

We are the eyes, the mouth, the hands reaching. 

We are one body united, 

individually indispensable. 

We are one strong foundation, 

many leaning on the same cornerstone. 

We are the living stones.  We are the living stones. 

Can you hear me?  We are living stones

so ancient and able.

mantle

The mantle of the earth 

is between the crust and the core

and I wonder if my new arrangement 

in my house is that too. 

Something between what the world sees 

then assumes to be true

and the deepest burning part of me. 

I wanted this to look just right

with the red, the wood, the white. 

I wanted this to have friendly snow men, 

a trinity of boxes, candles, my prayer vessel, 

and balls.  I knew I needed the balls. 

And underneath this Country Homes mantle

is the core of me, all 7000 degrees celsius.

Burning on itself, fueling itself, 

in some suffocating centripetal spin.

Part of me is this which is pretty

and that which is on fire. 

Part of me is the prayer box and the ball. 

Part of me is the wreath, 

the bulbous belly of the snowman. 

Part of me is giving birth 

as I roar with something missing. 

I dusted every surface this morning, 

I placed then rearranged every object.  

I created balance and sweeping sightlines.

While in me, I was burning away the last nine months, 

setting fire to the dizziness, the silence, 

the months of no, the pinching self-condemnation.  

And while that heat bears pain, birthing pain, 

I am surprised to feel hope swing into the vacuum. 

Now, not consumed with what will never be, 

I am flickering with what is desired:

love without judgement, peace without fear, 

grace without expectation. 

And I know that,  like this lush planet, 

ornament to the universe, 

I contain it all and 

am somehow welcome in this mantle place: 

on the crusty edge of what is and what burns to be. 

 

There is a time

Every November, the militia comes out. 

Huge machines scrape and blow the tree lawn piles 

into the middle of the street, 

sometimes the stack of debris is ten feet tall. 

I love this machine, the one that can push, scoop and lift

the leaves in the flatbed trucks.  He is king of all. 

Some years, I have watched as I do other things in my yard, 

but today I got up to watch it all.  I sat right on my stoop, 

as the chilled air made my breath winter white.

And it did not take long for me to wish that I could add

other stuff to the pile, stuff that could be taken out of here

to decompose elsewhere: 

her "no" when I asked if we could lay down one more time, 

the empty hollow of my house some nights, 

the "I could have" thoughts that still skitter through my brain, 

the conversation we will never get to have,

my dry skin, the new worry lines on my face, 

the bed, so wide and cold, 

the unknowing, the what ifs, the I may nevers, 

the silverware stacked in the sink. 

I wish the men would come and blow 

the piles of hindsight off the yellowing grass, 

and push it all into the middle of the street, 

with my neighbor's miscarriage, 

the deaf dog, my friend L's dissolving marriage, 

all of the scrapes and scars that beloved children may get, 

the words mothers say that stick and damage for years, 

the stiff space between hard conversations, 

bruises on the hip, bruises on the soul. 

I wish we could stack it all ten feet high, 

twenty feet if needed, 

and drive it all away to a place 

where these things can be placed, 

molt and change into reusable matter, 

instead of doing this hard work--

this work that must be done --

by churning and composting 

the sadnesses in our hearts. 

my hand

...would have been on the small of your back. 

My hand would have found the crook in your elbow. 

I would have leaned my weight against your weight, 

and wrapped you in my sister hug. 

There, as your living father turned into a legend, 

as he passed from this place to another, 

joining his wife and daughter,

and every dog that ever galloped toward him wagging, 

I wish you would have had a sweet soft place to land.

I wish you had been encircled, that night and every night, 

an arm wrapped around your waist, 

a hand on your heart in the dark. 

It is hard to be here among the living

when one part of you is dead. 

And it is hard to ache for life

as parts of you have a winter numb. 

But, know this, you are loved, 

you are alive, and I count on your light. 

Even as I know you'll return to the sea

and find your home in the town your father is buried, 

part of you will always be right here, 

in me, in others like me who love you so much. 

And no matter where you are, 

or how your reach out, 

our hands will find you and hold you tight. 

you made me...

...smile like this, 

my eyes shiny and open.

And you made me 

sleep safely, 

speak honestly, 

honor the truth. 

You made me 

love a new food, 

fly a new kite, 

visit a new dream. 

You made me 

heal and hope, 

you kept me up late at night. 

You made me see the stars, 

look at the moon, 

you gave me a new song to sing.

No one else, 

remember that. 

No one else but you. 

sally

My mom would have been 72 if she were with us,

but I wonder how you count age once you are gone.

I like to think she is college age now, 21 or 22,

that big smile flashing, her Jane Russell body,

one boy with her, another dozen or so chasing.

I hope she is happy wherever she is,

with her mother and father, her sister,

her mother and father-in-law,

her Theta friends, all of the people she knew and loved.

I always say that I hope my mom

is eating chips by the pool. That's just how I picture her.

Here, on this solid brown earth,

I miss her it-will-all-be-fine attitude,

something I scorned for so many years.

I love my dad, but he has passed on his worry streak to me

and I need a dose of naive assurance

every once in a while. Who am I kidding?

I need it every day these days.

So, I am sure I will seek my other mothers today,

linger in their presence longer.

Hang on for that secret smile

or find a way to receive her hug in their arms.

And I will think these words,

I will try to live into these words:

Life is short.

We do not have much time with the people on our path.

So make swift with your love and

make haste with your kindness.

For life is short, life is so short. Amen.

at last

When it happened, the first person 

I thought of was Anthony Freeman, 

a nine-year old fourth grader at my school. 

Maybe he will relax into his strong intellect now, 

maybe he will stop fighting 

--already at this age--to prove himself.

Maybe, he'll know, the way I have always known, 

that he can and he will do anything.

The world recognizes this leader,

our country has finally lived into its tenet of all men, 

and, across this land, children are waking up

with a new strain of bold hope in them, 

thinking 'yes I can.'  Yes, I can. 

I want the pumpkin to tell me something

...maybe how it is proud to be fat, 

maybe how it is willing to wait and wait 

for the right person to find it,

run their hand over it, and fall in love. 

Bumps and imperfections 

part of the deal.  Endearing, in fact. 

Maybe how it is willing to be cut, 

shaped into something new. 

Maybe how it can be scooped out, 

guts gooey and filled with seeds. 

That, actually,  the only way to get the seeds is to score it, 

force a sad toothy smile on its face. 

That the only way to make it light up, 

shine from the inside out, leaves a scar.  

That, even knowing that the squirrels will come, 

or the cold days will soften it, 

it is strong enough to sit there,  king of the stoop, 

glowing, glowing through the night. 

chlorophyll

George told me that during the fall

we see the actual color of the tree leaves,

the red, golden, pink tipped beauty,

the purple blistering, the orange.

All summer, needing to be fed,

the chlorophyll camouflages what is their true nature.

I do not need to strain or twist this fact

to make it true for me too.

In our small deaths, in the midst of the fall,

with very little to convert sunlight into sustenance,

my eyes are darker brown, my heart deep purple.

The colors I lean toward whisper the winter truth of me.

grace

I was driving home from Lakewood

late tonight, crossing town for the second time,

passing her street for the second time today,

and, yes, this time I gave in and drove past her house.

There were two cars in the driveway,

the lights were out, and I just went by,

as if it is not the place she shares with someone else,

as if it were not the place filled with memories for me:

her kissing me by the door,

her kissing me in the kitchen,

me kissing her on the steps,

crying in her bed so many times,

from joy and thanksgiving.

Even the mundane: painting her rooms,

painting her garage door, fixing her window,

baking the Oscar salami roll, delivering her chair,

eating prime rib, listening to music,

and, the most lovely,

resting on her couch, my head on her lap.

But by the time I made it to Carnegie

I was shouting, screaming above the Coldplay.

And, ten minutes later, I was crying on Cedar Hill.

The light at Fairmount was red so I pulled next to a white car,

every one it decked out from a night out on the town.

A man in the back seat was laughing and smiling,

talking to the two people in the front.

He turned and looked at me and saw my face,

twisted, troubled. I held his glance for a second longer,

then cried harder, as the light turned green.

Then something unexpected. His window lowered,

and his brown beautiful hand came out into the night.

He gave me a peace sign, then to make sure I had seen it,

he wiggled his fingers and raised it higher.

When we met again at the next light, he looked at me,

and I looked at him, and there was no shame,

there was no racial divide. No gay or straight.

There were no strangers, nothing separated him from me.

He had no idea what I was thinking or why I might be crying.

He had no inkling of what might be wrong,

and, without hesitating, he offered me the only thing he could,

and the only thing that might heal me.

He gave me peace, he wished for my peace.

And then, in that white car, my miracle drove away.

For...

...a little goat in Texas, 

trees that I can lean against, 

flat stones to skip. 

For phones that ring, 

emails that are answered, 

"shout outs" at high school soccer games. 

For running into a friend,

hugging a friend, 

having a friend sit beside me. 

For glances across the room, 

bread and wine at the table, 

eyes meeting eyes.

For the baby that holds my nose, 

the brother that makes a magnet bracelet, 

the mother who keeps them safe. 

For colored pencils, 

page 13 in my new book, 

the smell of the sheets on my bed.

For the machine that takes the pictures, 

the man who read the images, 

the doctor who knows what it all means. 

For the heater now whirring, 

the socks on my feet, 

the leaves turning purple. 

For the things that have been here, 

the ones who have gone, 

that which is yet to come.

For the butter in the scrambled eggs, 

the chickens that roost and lay, 

and a woman far away who finds and cleans them

I give thanks. 

Mowing

Yesterday, I sat in a waiting room 

with three eighty year old women, 

each waiting for her husband to finish a brain MRI. 

I was there alone, waiting for my name to be called,

so that I could wait to enter the patient area, 

wait to put on my green not-quite-big-enough gown,

wait to get my contrast dye IV, 

wait for the last person to leave the scanner, 

wait while in the scanner -- the machine, 

as close to a coffin as I will ever get -- 

banging and screeching around me

for forty long minutes, nothing to do but think. 

I thought of those women, those men, 

the brains surgeries the men were facing.

One woman, all smiles and grins, until her husband left, 

how she bowed down, how the color in her drained, 

how she held her head with both hands. 

I thought about the last time I was having an MRI, 

My love in the waiting room, driving the car. 

Everywhere for those forty minutes. 

How she was right about almost everything:

sleeping together is better than sleeping alone, 

eating a treat is better with another person, 

driving is better, shopping is better, movies are better, 

talking is better.  Yes, talking with another person 

is so much better than talking alone in your head. 

Last weekend I mowed my yard, then plowed down 

my gardens with the mower.  I was killing everything in sight. 

Angry, my mower and I reconfigured everything, 

wiped it down to its roots then I stood there, 

my hands on my hips, king of a very small kingdom. 

Today, I mowed my yard, the Sweeney's yard, Margaret's yard, 

and I would have kept going all of the way down Dellwood, 

if I had the gas and the invitation to do so. 

Not angry, but sad.  This time trying to create rows, 

perfectly crafted rows.  One row for the things I did wrong. 

Then, one row for the things I did right. 

So many for the things she knew how to do well. 

The next for the things I cannot fix, 

another for the things I will never know or feel again. 

One for the ways in which I am lonely, 

one for the things I now see and understand.  

So many, wishing I could set things straight. 

And several wondering what we might do today, together: 

drive to the country, stop in a place we have never eaten, 

buy some marbles, buy some rocks, talk about our weeks, 

her hand on my head, my hand on her knee.  

They say that it is good to cry in the shower, 

but I tell you, it is good to cry while mowing, 

the sound drowning out your tears and twists.

The sound drowning out other sounds too:

the sound of fear in a waiting room, 

the sound of just two feet in house,

the sound of the neighbors laughing, 

the sound of no one talking to you, 

the sound of death's sweet whisper, 

the sound of things breaking all around you, 

rust growing, skin wrinkling, dozen and dozens 

of lonely gray hairs popping out of your head.

we teach

...best what we need to learn. 

I have always hated that phrase, 

mostly because I am a teacher. 

One who cares deeply about 

students' care for each other, 

teachers' willingness to collaborate, 

the excitement about learning, 

processing information to a creative form. 

Does that adage mean that I need 

to learn how to be kind, function within a team, 

be and stay enthused about learning? 

I hope not. I pray not. 

And, in some cases, what you need most

comes directly from your own hand. 

From your own mouth.  A plea, perhaps, 

a petition from your thirsty, starving heart. 

Listen, you shout to yourself. 

Stop this, yourself shouts to you. 

Usually, it all happens in my head, 

but this week, it came out as a chair. 

A chair I need to sit in, 

for many many hours, 

across from people I love and trust, 

with warm healthy food between us. 

A chair I need to see, read --

my words staring back at me, 

when I no longer believe

in possibilities, 

in truth and beauty, 

in my own splendor. 

a promise

There were so many promises, 

but the one that made me weep today

was this: she said, "We will never run out of things to say."

I was so sure we would, or I would. 

How could I possibly entertain and captivate someone 

after I told all of my classics: 

the time I fell out of my chair on the first day of teaching, 

winning all of the tennis intramural t-shirts in college, 

what happened to me on September 11th. 

How could the day to day discussions 

of life sustain a relationship?

But they did.  We never ran out of things to talk about. 

Sitting on the porch, walking down the block. 

There was never a numbed and silent long distance trip, 

nor were there dinners out where we just stared at the food, 

like so many couples do.  We talked, and talked and talked. 

Words came easy to us, even the hard words in hard times. 

And laughter was a close second.  

She always twisted us back home. 

But now, even after all of those years 

and all of those shared experiences, 

what would I say to her?

How are you?  How is your job?

Your house? Your garden? 

All of those are tied inextricably to her new girlfriend.

How am I?  How is my work? 

What have I learned about myself? 

What am I doing for fun? 

All of those are tied inescapably to the smokey ash 

of my personal Judeo-christian calendar. 

Except I do not know where to put the year zero: 

the day I met her or the day she left me.

Either way, even as my life and the possibilities of growth 

all still swirl around what she gave me, 

or what has been forced to change in her absence, 

I have nothing to tell her.   

And nothing I am able to hear from her. 

I cannot believe this, the best promise of all, 

the most comforting assurance 

in my life, is no longer true. 

I was right.  She was wrong. 

We have run out of things to say. 

Replanting

One patch of grass refuses to grow, 

after several layers of high grade topsoil, 

and many attempts with various kinds of seed. 

Sun, shade, sun and shade. 

The kind with fertilizer built in, the rough green stuff too. 

The yard was completely dug up two years ago

to put in a new run-off pipe and main line. 

The gorge could hold one hundred dead men, 

the dirt was piled ten feet high in my front yard. 

People stopped their cars to stare. 

Now, the water is out of my basement, 

the yard has regained it plumb, 

you can barely discern the trauma. 

And it all seems worth it, 

except for this patch which does not thrive. 

Today, as I feel the yellow belly of rage

and a monster jealousy within me, 

today, as I again wander backwards, 

my eyes still welling with tears, 

feeling the sour swell of being alone,

I wonder if this patch is the part of me 

that cannot, will not, attempts not to flourish -

if I cling to some part of this thing I will never again know. 

No matter how many times my hurt is tilled 

and reseeded, part of me rejects the notion to grow. 

And yet, I bike to the Heights Garden Center, 

buy the best organic mix this time. 

I rake the topsoil with a sturdy rake. 

Toss the kernels onto the brown,

then I begin, watering the hope once again. 

10 words

The autumn,

like parts of my heart. 

Blazing, 

then fallen. 

Testament

On the edge of spring, as buds spotted the trees, 

we unexpectedly found ourselves

perfect for each other, 

perfect for the time, the intersection. 

And we created a cocoon

of phone calls and feet,  

of words written on long pages, 

and songs picked and presented as gifts. 

We found benches to sit upon in so many cities, 

and walked down their streets, 

hand in hand, hand upon back,

unashamed to be loving, solid in our space and place. 

It was just right.  A healing time, 

a finding time, a period of redefining. 

It was - you were - a Moses moment for me, 

holy and resurrecting. 

Leading me through the desert, 

pouring cup after cup of cool water. 

Handing over our loose hearts, 

we made requisitions that will last a lifetime. 

And now, as the Japanese maple

blazes its burning bush

and we turn in a new direction, 

packed for a different kind of long  journey together

I need you to know I heard you calling,

you heard me calling,  

we both  answered, "Here I am" 

and, together, we created a promised land that I loved. 

Sweet

I can picture him

at Marshalls or Target, 

maybe even Restoration Hardware, 

looking at the pillow and the throw, 

wondering if my brother and sister-in-law

would like them.  Wondering if they would match 

their furniture as well as 

he could imagine them matching.

I can picture him

pulling out the charge card, excited. 

Chatting with the cashier. 

Then penning the note, 

putting the items in the big bag, 

covering it with tissue paper. 

I can picture him

thinking of them today

opening the present, 

his present to them 

on their anniversary. 

For some reason this makes my heart ache, 

how my father works so purposefully, 

sweetly, to gift his love. 

How he thinks and plans, 

then executes in a perfect way. 

How it's just him now, 

and how he knows we count on him 

to provide us with a double kind of devotion.

How he just wants to be seen, and known, 

maybe thanked for paying such gentle attention. 

How I can see the little boy in him, 

in his seventy-four year old face.

How he ducks his eyes just a bit

and holds out every one 

of his offerings with both hands. 

Wanting it to be just right. 

Wanting it all to be alright, 

never exactly sure 

that it always is. 

When in doubt

...eat popsicles. 

When in doubt, 

eat anything with sugar, 

especially popsicles. 

Accept the temporary high. 

When in doubt, 

take a long fast moped ride,

winding through the streets you love,

Fairmount, South Park, North Park, Eaton,

until you can feel your world spinning

underneath you again. 

When in doubt, 

pick up your neighbor's daughter

and make her laugh, 

until you care more about keeping

the sticks from the yard out of her mouth

than you do about burrowing sticks

into your own thin skin. 

When in doubt,

listen to your answering machine, 

the saved messages. 

One from Helen with a joke

about two zebras and a pickle,

one from Mark about the birth 

of baby John, 

one from Grace

where you can hear your mom 

in the background. 

When in doubt, 

wash some clothes 

and put them on straight from the dryer, 

warm, fresh, 

like the skin you wish you were in.

When in doubt, 

write a letter, or an email, 

correct the mistake 

that has you swimming. 

Put soft words in your brown heart, 

and let them massage a newness into you. 

When in doubt, 

and through the doubt,

and when the doubt is waning,

eat a popsicle. 

Then another if need be. 

Let your lips be red and happy,

and the rest of you will follow suit. 

Hummingbird

Yesterday, a hummingbird 

sucked from this wavy petunia. 

Drank the nectar out of a plant 

nearly dying after a long, dry August. 

I wanted to see it as a sign. 

I want everything to be a sign now. 

That there is lingering life in death, 

personal living resurrections. 

That there is sweetness 

even in the most difficult times. 

That our eyes seek color, 

and float over to it. 

That, no matter what, 

we can beat our wings

at extraordinary speed, 

just to stay alive.  

Lunch

This year, I am making my own lunch.

No brown paper bag stuffed to the curled handle, 

no special treats, mid-day snacks, no toy.

I will not be eating turkey on a fluffy roll, 

nor will I be reading a love note unearthed

near the bottom of the bag. 

I do not even know if she knows 

this is the first day of school. 

I do not know if she'll stop for a minute, 

pause and smile, thinking of me -- 

or her -- how she could create love for us

as easily as the sun turns to rise each day. 

All I know is that I will be thinking of her, 

at 10, when there are no pretzels to eat. 

At 12, as I stand by the microwave

to heat up the pasta I made for myself. 

At 2, just when I am craving some chocolate. 

And now, right now, as I try to type 

and type and type away at the missing. 

I feel like I should take out a brightly colored 

piece of paper and a thin black pen. 

And I should write in that printing she had 

and I have, so straight and true. 

"I love you" -  maybe a wish floating 

backwards to our time, a thank you note to her. 

Or a message for me about myself.  

That I can read, put in my pocket, 

and try to believe when my lunch is hard to swallow. 

Mom

My mom hated this picture, 

the fat billowing from her suit straps.

But --and -- it has always been one of my favorites.

The way she is looking at Sarah, 

the way Sarah is looking back. 

Love. What else could you call it? 

I miss my mother.  I miss her now, 

as my life turns to the right, 

into the last few decades. 

I want to know what she would advise me, 

whether I should stay or go, 

move forward in hope or hold the party line.  

I want to read her words of assurance, 

that it will all be okay. 

I will not live alone, die alone, 

struggle alone.  

I want to see her laugh just one more time, 

her head thrown back. 

I want one more hug, 

to be pulled sufficatingly to her breasts. 

I want her to cry with me in a few months, 

when I lose my uterus, my eggs. 

The grandchildren I never gave her, 

the babies she never swam with. 

I want her to hold my hand through that small death, 

the same way I cradled hers when she left us. 

August

This is the summer I had, 

seventy days in one circle. 

Every line, shape and color

a person, place or thing. 

See the rocks skipping?

The time spent on the lawn? 

Can you find SoCo? 

Or the driving range illegal break-in? 

Three pulpits, four walls, 

five blocks walked, nineteen pages written.

One question, one prayer, 

one fibroid, one groovy girl kite. 

Do you see sadness and stagnation

in these enhanced colors? 

I hope not.  The moped is moving, 

the windows are open. 

Sun beats down on bare feet, 

golden light shines on the healing table. 

The colors that found me 

were loyally bright. 

More Than Half Empty

Even then, on one of our first excursions, see her hand? 

The one that is raised and waving good-bye?

I force myself to write poems of light and hope, 

I spoon-feed myself the gruel of forgiveness, 

when part of me wants to lay down in the street and wail, 

stand outside her door and shout a fuckyou shout. 

One that her new love will hear, that the neighbors will hear, 

that her co-workers and clients will hear, 

so that they will wonder about her, what she did to cause 

and plant a seed with such a black and ferocious root. 

This is the weekend we would go to Zinck's Inn, 

these are the days of Berlin laughter and board games.

And now there are places I can never go, places 

stripped from me forever.  And I am angry, hurt.  

I feel like I am digging dirt to fill in a hole that has no bottom.  

Dark humus, as organic as anything I know. 

Not planting a backyard garden nor contributing beauty--

like a pink dogwood tree or a patch of royal iris. 

I am just lifting and turning, pouring soil into my empty spots.

Digging and digging, sweat like tears running down my face.  

Sycamore

A tax man was hiding up in a sycamore

when Jesus came through town.  

Not able to be among the throngs, 

he perched and watched.  

Waiting, I bet, like I am waiting. 

Jesus saw him, no one else did, 

and called him down from the tree. 

"We're eating at your house tonight, 

now, go, and get ready." 

I imagine Zaccheus leaping down 

and running ahead to prepare the feast. 

The sycamores are shedding in my neighborhood.

Today Pam and I were talking 

when a large piece of bark fell to the ground. 

She turned her head chasing the sound. 

I realized, speaking with her, 

that she is in a tree and I am in a tree, 

and so damn many of us are up in our trees. 

Perched away from the swimming tide of people, 

or tucked away with our sadness and ancient crusty hurts. 

Cubbied away from the pain, away from the unknown, 

and the terror where those two intersect.  

And, when we come down, 

by invitation of smile or laughter, 

when we loose ourselves

and say yes to the front porch, 

yes to sharing water and sharing tears, 

when we catch the sight of the beckoning finger, 

and respond, drawing closer and not away, 

we are so easily able to answer 

the one most important question: 

what is life asking of us? 

Just to show up, to shed some of our skin,

to drop the brown bark off of our hearts, 

revealing the white green of new growth. 

Half full

We have a choice in each sticky moment, 

to hold or release, to cling to or forgive. 

We have just two words that will suffice: 

yes and no.  It is simple. 

It has been six months, and today

I am thinking of the things I have gained since she left. 

Fear does not rule my life, 

I have taken chances, art classes, writing classes, 

new bold colors on walls that no longer drip with regret. 

My new jeans fit perfectly, my new short haircut shines,  

and several people have told me my butt is cute.

I have been to Williamsburg, I have been to Austin, 

I have eaten migas in the Magnolia Cafe. 

I have drawn madalas, I have sungs with women, 

harmonies and rounds, an octave of music, 

both high and light and low and bowing, 

still and hanging in a sacred space. 

I have laid on the floor and slept. 

I have wept and wept, tears no longer need coaxing, 

thay are as natural as breathing or sleep.

My heart is round -- not lopsided, 

I know grief and love and the growth that seeds in both.

I have prayed in circles of people,  

holding hands with men and women who cradle me. 

A baby shivers with joy when she sees me, 

my neighbors feed me.  Conversations over coffee.  

Chai latte sipped in Lousville. 

New skin, soft under my finger tips, 

new hands upon my face.  

I have seen fireworks, clapped along to gospel music, 

spoken my truth from a pulpit to a leaning congregation, 

I have called strikes from the best seat in the stadium. 

I have buried two friends, retired two more,

I have leaned on the light of new sisters and brothers, 

and thrown rocks skittering across the Chagrin River. 

Bread has been broken and passed, 

beers clinked on the front porch. 

Ice cream has been drizzled with chocolate sauce. 

White light has doused me, 

my spirit has founds its wide tide.

Fifty seven new songs are on my iPod, 

forty-eight new colored pencils are at my drawing station. 

My heartrate is slower,  my nails are longer, 

I smell of grapefruit and rosemary mint.  

There are no more boxes in my life, 

only circles, widening and strengthening circles. 

Just one small puddle remains. 

And, even now, the sun is out and drying it. 

Is there light in the darkness?  

How do we lean into the light of a tarry night? 

We have a choice in each sticky moment. 

To hold or release, to ask for help or to suffer. 

We have just two words that suffice: full and empty. 

Look at my hands now, and what I can hold. 

 

 

Taking Back the Room

The last rooms I painted before this one 

were her's at her house, 

one lime green and one strong blue. 

We sweated through one summer day, 

hour upon hour, me cutting the edges 

while holding my breath. 

Then, she moved in here, with me, 

and had this room, the ironing room, 

to pile and keep her stuff. 

And, half the coat closet, 

the whole upstairs walk-in, two chests of drawers, 

and the side of the bed by the window. 

I thought it was enough, 

this opening of doors and places, 

and now, knowing what I know and can imagine 

about a wider, you before me, 

thou before I kind of love, 

I thought wrong, I held too tightly to things and spaces.

And not her. 

Then, she left, one day her mind made up, 

without talking with me, 

without listening to my prayers and pleas. 

For months these walls in this room have sat empty,

like my heart, a hole as wide as North Dakota, waiting, 

waiting, for her -or maybe me -to show back up again.

Yesterday, I took back the room, 

painting it the shade of green 

she picked for her house, but with brown, 

stirred with the brown loamy muck of what happened.

So now, my more golden green is a forest color: 

the shade one finds after wandering, 

cold and hopeful, through the thickest woods, 

stopping along the ancient way to see shoots of light 

peaking down and glimpses of another stronger blue. 

A green tinged with gathering grief, growth 

and resurrection acceptance. 

 

Gone

When my mother was alive, I would have passing thoughts of her
less frequently than I would like to admit.
She had a huge energy, always making friends with strangers,
more than she seemed willing to know and understand me.
So she had to inject her way into my life,
calling, writing, emailing,
sending me every forwarded prayer
and "save the troops" message she would get.

There were years I barely acknowledged her,
and a stretch of months when we did not speak at all.
Yet, she persisted and stayed,
sending out her one way rope,
over and over again.

I loved many things my mother did:
writing SCR+BHR in the new cement,
reaching for my father's hand when they crossed the street,
putting fresh cut flowers by the bedside whenever I would visit,
the way she would cry at Christmas,
loving whatever gift I would give her.

But I did not really fall in love with my mom -- with her--
until she could no longer talk.
Her big voice stilled by a stroke,
the only way she had to communicate was in whispers
and movements with her dark, clear eyes.

She worked so hard, doing everything the doctors asked.
She lifted and pinched, she pointed her fingers
and raised her feet, trying to twirl and flex her toes.
She struggled to stand once, her heartrate bouncing and churning.
She amazed me, a hero to all heroes. A hero to me.
Never once crying, complaining, or asking why.

It was a soft time, a thin time,
and every crumb of anger and need was wiped away.
Like so many have said, the cliche warning is true.
When there was no time left to love, all I felt was love.

I remember holding her hand as she was dying,
talking to her, thanking her, wishing her a safe passage.
I apologized, I laughed, I told stories to her stone still face,
so honored to be the one there with her.
I remember the slight shift in the room,
blue air swimming in, and the last few breaths.
Then the silence, the color draining from her cheeks,
her warm hand heavy, heavier than anything I had ever held.

But what I remember most was the night
two weeks before, when she shooed me away to sleep,
before I would take the plane home for a week.
We thought it would a long process, her dying,
and my brother and I would take shifts.
It was late, near midnight, and mom,
turned to me, whispering, "Go, now, the plane is early."

I nodded, kissed her face, her forehead,
and looked at her as deep in as I could get.
"I love you, mom. I love you."
She wrinkled a smile, and said "I know."
And then, one tear, slow and definite,
rolled down her left cheek.
One small drop that had it all:
I birthed you, I bear you, I hold you still,
I wish you well, I see you now,
I forgive everything you could never say or do,
I forgive me every way in which I hurt you,
I will be with you beyond this world, beyond time.
One tear saying I loved you, I love you.
One tear promising I will love you your whole life long,
even when I am gone.

Facing Yourself

So much of life is binary,
yes or no,
like or dislike,
straight or turn,
now or later.
Decisions trip at a clip,
and you happily move towards oblivion.

Then, in one day, you start wrestling yourself.
You stand toe to toe with someone you've barely glanced at,
belly to belly with your own heartbeat,
eyes locked on mirrored eyes,
searching and scanning for a glint of bolder truth.

Is this the love you should feel?
Is this the love you should deny?
Is this the house you should call home?
Is this the city where you can nestle your soul?
Is this the job that fuels your backbone?
Are these the people who will raise you higher?

Does the timeline of your life
match the timeline of your most fierce and hungry dreams?

And nothing seems simple,
your future flipflops in a breathy chest.
You hunt for signs in lampposts and lawn clover.
You wander and pluck through the woods until
one sentence circles around your dirty feet:
love the whispered wish most ferociously,
listen to the desire on the edge of its death.

And then, gently, so quietly and sure,
you turn away from your smaller self,
and walk into the big skin
that's been waiting for you to finally show up,
shed of everything but raw, sweet ready.

Together

Nearby, twenty people gathered to listen to bad poetry:

rhymes that were not anchored in ideas, 

or slim thoughts that swung from branch to branch, 

never finding their way down to the roots. 

Nearby, two women and one man worked: 

foaming lattes, pouring chai tea, 

selling coconut macaroon vegan cookies, 

wiping down a rich wooden counter. 

Nearby, seven singles on seven laptops: 

hunting the internet, typing emails, 

looking up references to support thick textbooks, 

listening to music, small pods in ears. 

With all of this, we sat and drew. 

Drew about Austin, filling the circle with the fullness of us. 

Her turn, my turn, 

sharing all 48 colors in the box. 

This may look like a pretty platter to you, 

but for me, it is this: laying together, 

give and take, holding space, 

then holding hands on an open street. 

This is a quilt, a bed, a cupcake. 

This is a chicken coop, feeding baby Muskrat. 

This is a ring, a shirt, a bag, 

a pair of pants that fit, 

then came off, draped across a bed. 

This is the plate of migas, 

this is the bowl of starry sky, 

this is the road that took us from one home to another, 

two hands on the stick shift, 

downshifting when needed, 

listening for the rev of the engine, 

then her voice saying "Now, now." 

Mothering

I do not know how she does it, 

drives the stick shift with one hand, 

feeds a banana to her toddler son with the other, 

avoids the detour bumps along Adelbert Road. 

Today, Anne gave me the simple job of holding 

the bowl of Cheerios for Sheridan, 

and, within seconds, I had lost control over the Tupperware

and the cereal was all over the grass. 

How do mothers mother? 

Keep all of the objects in motion,

opening umbrellas, explaining automatic doors?

Answer every question thrown at them, 

in mumble language half unclear? 

No, there is nothing in the truck. 

Yes, you can throw a penny into the fountain. 

Margaret is going with the nurse, 

yes, nurses help doctors. 

It is endless and all I can do is marvel. 

My neighbor seems to know the right thing

to reply to every inquiry, even the hard ones. 

When Tavish asked her what grace is, 

she said, "It is the thing within you, 

that makes you kind even when that is hard." 

Good enough for a two and half year old. 

Good enough for me, too, actually. 

I want to access that open ready wisdom. 

I want mom's advice now that my mother is gone. 

I want to trail behind Anne 

and let my questions mingle with her son's.  

Maybe she will just answer them, 

quickly, surely, without realizing they are coming from me,

someone who should know the answers by now. 

What is the point to suffering?

When will I feel myself within myself again?

How big can my heart get?

When will I let the next someone in?

Will my hope conquer my fear? 

How am I to express my love now?

I can almost hear her, 

the answers I need rendered in short, 

easy to understand sentences.  

To learn, 

when you are ready, 

as big as it needs to be, 

when you are ready, 

if you let it, 

how ever you want to, 

whenever you are ready. 

Intersecting

My friend is kissing someone new, 

and waking up late, I imagine, 

then dragging herself to work 

where she spends more than half of her time there

thinking about one leg curled around another, 

or the way her kiss now fits 

into the nooks and crannies of a new landscape. 

She's on a journey, now, 

driving cross country across miles of skin, 

and so distracted by it 

that she simply smiles at the cops tucked behind billboards 

then waves: turbo love is not worth ticketing. 

I am not ready yet, 

but want to open myself to a generous and giving love.

I have someone who is more than ready to lay with me, 

naked upon naked, lip upon lip, leg wrapped around leg. 

And this would feel so good, so soothing, to intersect this way. 

Swirling green energy with orange, 

filling my head with jagged breathing not thoughts.

I am not ready to drive to Bozeman or Brighton Beach, 

but, oh, how a quick jaunt over to Buffalo would help. 

But love made for my sake is not love made at all, 

it is analgesic, an anodyne anesthetic. Only I would feel better, 

and the other person would be miles away from home, 

on the shore of Lake Erie, for God's sake, 

looking for a trucker, a train,

 a Dodge Caliber to rent and get home. 

I am in the process of approaching myself now, 

making flirtatious long glances into my own face. 

I am studying the curve of my strong back, 

and looking for signs of bright light shining in my eyes. 

I am waiting for the most important intersection of all: 

the day I fall back in love with some small part of me, 

something I have never felt or noticed before. 

In that one flash moment, the rest of world will reopen, 

and I will be able to reach back at someone reaching for me. 

Karma

It happened the minute she left me, 

I was once in a couple, and then, 

as soon as the door closed behind her,  I was single. 

One, not one of two, not half of something else, just one.  

And ever since then, I see singlular women everywhere, 

older women needing assistance. 

Margaret called in a friend from Arizona 

to care for her during her hip replacement surgery, 

Carol had to hire someone to drive her to the hospital, 

and Rita Marie's mother will now live alone in an nursing home.

Emergency call buttons, nurses' stations, naps after every meal. 

Ever since she left me, the one who said she would never leave,  

I have been building up my karma bank account, 

not kosher, I know, but it's the best this presbyterian can do. 

I visited Margaret in the hospital, 

Anne and I brought her a chocolate shake. 

I volunteered to drive Carol to her next appointment.

And, for the last couple days, 

I helped Rita Marie pack up her mother's things. 

I touched old panty hose, painted green cats, 

word search books, and fuzzy blankets. 

I measured lift chairs and end tables, 

I made boxes and labeled socks. 

My arms are bruised and my back is sore. 

And, even though it is being done 

to help people I genuinely care about, 

it is also being done to protect me 

forty years from now, maybe only twenty, 

when I am infirmed and needy,

and waiting for someone to push my wheelchair 

to the dining hall for whatever soft and tasteless foods 

might be on the menu. 

In a few weeks, maybe a few months, 

I will have to have a grapefruit sized fibroid removed. 

I had not cried, not once, 

until today when I read about hysterectomies. 

The book recommended that 

"the patient bring slip on slippers and loose underwear, 

something that will pull up easily and not disturb the wound."

Immediately I pictured that scene, me with...who?  

My dad? My brother? One of my friends?  

Someone from church? A nurse?  

All I know is that it will be someone who is not her, 

the only person on the planet I fully trusted, 

the person who bathed me after my broken arm, 

the person who held my hand after the visits to the neurologist, 

the person who wiped away every tear when my mother died.

She will no longer be there, with me, 

when it comes time to pull on that loose underwear. 

I will be alone, or with someone as mortified as I am, 

staring down at the scar running across my abdomen, 

and the scars still visible on my face.