a friend admits goodbye

We had that one Texas afternoon
singing along - do you remember that time

downtown in my beat-up van

drips of sweat down our temples
laughing and feeling like two misfits
the adults would never understand
satisfied and cavalier

in our awkwardness -
it wasn’t enough

The exchange of emails

probably hundreds of conversations

I smile every time I remember

how you lost your shoe
(or did I paint that
into my picture of you?)

in a frantic dash
across a record store parking lot
for a photograph with Regina -
but it wasn’t enough

And seeing your sister 

in a body cast in the ICU

and listening to you cry 

when he didn’t love you back -
but none of it was enough

to maintain at least a fake politeness

of infrequent correspondence 

Pithy friendship 

in the springtime of youth

on the fringes of life’s summer

exchanging maudlin thoughts

that will, curiously and always,

have a place in my heart.

I wonder how phone calls dwindle

and words quiet

after someone tells you

“You are my favorite person”

I still have the letters

I will probably never throw them away

We are the adults now
we have no time for friendships

buoyed by the innocence
of unprejudiced childhood
I’m not sure what it is, exactly,
that you don’t like about me anymore
but I understand
most friendships are meant to fade
we have served finite purposes
in our individual stories
and I am beginning to be okay with that
I hope only that you know
I leave you with love 

banquet

I want to know you 
like I want to know
a fresh French loaf
steaming, topped with pork
and duck fat
and gerkins
burning my fingertips
heavy and fulfilling 
bringing my body rest

you are a cup of tea
delicate and soothing
your voice, your hesitancy
your simple honesty 
ephemeral eye contact
your quiet rebellion and gentle protest

and you,
you are homemade plum jam
your giggle, your sweet roundness
the sadness behind your eyes
all smiles

I want to listen to you talk
I want to hear where you come from
the story of your grandmother and
the story of your mother
braided into the story of you
how you've been hurt
found a way to recover
how you've been taught to keep quiet and refused
and how did you choose:
to tend to the woman
or to become the mother
not simply reduced 

I want to hold you and tell you
the world doesn't deserve who you are
if only everyone could see what I see
friend, you are lovely
and you fill a part of me
I didn't know needed filling
a good meal
lucky thing
there is always room
for more 

atole

I stand in the yellow light of my cramped kitchen hearing the night crickets outside the window bare foot resting upon ankle slowly stirring the maizena in patterned swirls powdery soft, bleached stripped of all color until it hits the liquid blooming pink I watch patiently as it comes together this ancient, sacred sweetness (made from corn that I did not harvest or mill: no arm muscles here quivering with the work of keeping my family alive) And I am thinking of the spirits of the ones who came before me with summer-cinnamon skin, who survived and whose stories live on in me I couldn’t begin to tell them but the kitchen is where they are alive and breathing I toss comino and chile like a prayer into bubbling pots I spread a paste of masa and water across strips of corn husks as if the pride of my lineage depends on it And on this night, simply: sliced one plastic corner and poured its smooth contents into homogenized 2% milk and snow-white crystals of sugar and called it not necessarily a sacred offering to the dead but a middle-of-the-night snacky still, I hold onto this heritage so tightly - colorful and wounded rich and determined - as if it could flit away like a hummingbird in a small town in Northeast America where my native blood is a qualifier for the 2.2% this daughter's son's daughter of an indigenous man knowing my summer-cinnamon babies will have a golden-edged childhood where they will have heard correct pronunciations and eaten foods our neighbors have never heard of

girl

thirty-seven in a
yellowed image, blunt haircuts and knowing smiles
dappled light and folded hands, elbows resting casually on knees
knees wearing slacks instead of dresses
delicate bracelets hanging, bright silver against summer skin
the only adornment
feet bare and childlike,
a silent protest 
I understand


These versions of the girls who wrote the most beautiful words
all glossy and faded on the inside of a book sleeve.
not the photograph taken three months before death at the age of 83
after a four-year fight with cancer, or such
whispy gray in patches 
necks wrinkled, skin stretched
hands spotted and gnarled
hands that held warm cups of tea in a favorite mug
hands that helped toddlers to their feet
hands that dried the tears of their friend after a miscarriage
hands that dug into cool, dark earth and buried seeds
got all dirty under the fingernails
evidence of life and muscle and sweat and ardor.
in the end, fingernails are always clean, probably

I think of all the wisdom held in those beautiful heads at the end
what would they have written about, then?
what poems does an 83-year-old girl dream up
folded delicately into stark white hospital sheets
Are we always who we were at
seven, at twelve, at twenty?
only with a refinement, a resignation 

But we choose the younger image, the strong and healthy self
as if there is little dignity in enduring
and ultimately dying
(which is, of course, the one thing we all have in common)

but perhaps when I go
you will choose the latter
the one with the whispy hair and spotted hands
years written on my body
the head full of memories and unspoken wisdom 
that we all, eventually, just have to figure out for ourselves

early riser

what I'm listening to: Fishin' by Luisa Marion 

silhouetted against a pearlescent sky
the swoop and the flit
the lilting whistle
and choruses of chirps
I'll never stop writing about them
their small black bodies on the wire
their conversations and the shape of their wings when they fly
how they draw us into simplicity

things matter and they don't
or rather, the wrong sort of things matter

on summer mornings, I shut my bedroom window 
to block out the sound
and I draw the curtains to block out the sun 
but lately, I am pulled outward
like the face of the blooms
are always looking toward the sun

I used to wonder how people woke up
in a history without alarm clocks
I hadn't even considered the call
that pips and pecks at my dreams
before the sun has chance to rise

there is one in the garden
pecking at my plants -
robin is always the boldest.
goldfinch feels like a treat
her tiny striking flash of yellow,
she is cautious, and precious as a gem.
starling with his metallic chirrups 
and the same nest in our gutter every spring.
cardinal loves the striped seeds from my sunflower forest
and is never without her mate
astonishing every time in his apple-red,
and the crows are complaining loudly to one another
in the crest of trees just over there
I always wonder if they recognize me,
smart as they are
if they hate me, love me, but really
any strong emotion toward me would do
making me their counterpart
and feel as if I have a place in their world
rather than the reverse,
which is that this is my world
and they have a place in it.

paying attention

what I'm listening to: Freedom by Tim Fain



If you pay attention
you'll notice the quick, smart whip of them
the flash of color, the dart, the swoop through midair 
red and yellow and sometimes blue
like bits of confetti caught in a swirl 
fluttering, small and celebratory

But you'll miss them:
in the time between the house and car,
hot, white sidewalk
your keys jangling, small box of flashing images
or on a brisk, productive walk
through a sterile neighborhood, desaturated, stark
where each blade of grass is precisely
three-quarters of an inch in length

They are too quick for passing glances
too shy for small talk
radiant in their colors but 
much too humble to desire notice

The way to pay attention is to
be content in your stillness
to give consideration to the things that
no one would pay to see 

Like the round bee, tiny early riser
legs plump with buttery pollen,
and the way the shadows shift and the light pours
hour by hour, brilliant and honeyed
through the leaves and petals
in the garden

nursing

I am not a machine, nor just a vessel.
I am soft and warm and your head fits
in the crook of my arm
like it was designed that way.

But society's collective voice
is one of discomfort
as if the weight and length of you
defines what you need from me.
as if your ability to tell me your need -
the evidence of the development of your brain
with all its layers like an onion -
means my response should change

"you can tell me now in three or four words
that you need me
that you want me to hold you
in the cocoon of my arms
and nourish you from my body,
and so now, because of this,
I can no longer do that."




As if deep dimples on the
   back of your dumpling hand
         with skin as smooth
                as the petal of a flower

                  isn't enough.


As if the way your hair
       curls at the nape of your neck
               which smells sweet
                        of milk and sleep,

                         isn't enough.


And your cheeks that give softly
under the gentlest weight of my kiss
while you are sleeping,
the softest skin that knows
no world-weary travelers
no sun-baked afternoon of toil
just creamy pillows, pink hill
against the scallop shape of my body

as if all this isn't enough
to keep holding you at this meeting place
in my old bentwood rocker
situation by the bookshelf piled with
candlesticks and your great-grandpa's vintage records
in our favorite room in the house
where the sun spills yellow over the floorboards
and the breeze makes the curtains dance 
your toddling legs spilling over my arm
your eye meeting mine
the corners of your mouth turning up
in the sweetest grin of gratitude and safety.
It's enough for me, my darling.

And so here we are again at 4pm on a Tuesday afternoon,
a quiet moment during which
I am inaccessible to the world
and I am begging you not to fall asleep
but loving the weight of you, heavy and trusting
as I nourish you with only the energy of my body
with my whispered I love yous,
with so much more than what is visible
knowing there will be a last time
knowing you won't always ask for this.

folds

what I'm listening to - come into my arms by november ultra


when we moved into our house
which is likely 150 years old
but no one knows for sure,
I felt there were ghosts there
not spirits, not really
but folds in time 
time repeating itself
and I sensed the echo of it, the composite

time is a construct, isn't it?
just a word for an idea to help us understand
even though we can't begin to fathom the true length of it
so maybe it is not linear at all.

in the emptiness before we filled
the old house with our things
I walked around barefoot on the hardwood floors.
they creaked and groaned 
as I stepped where footsteps have gone before
the echoing rooms seemed so cavernous
but despite how hollow, they were not lifeless.

I imagined the pitter-patter of other children before my own
I wondered if babies had been born here
or in which rooms someone had breathed their last
or if anyone had ever felt very alone at night 
under candlelit shadows.
something about loneliness always tugs at me.

perhaps what I feel are memories no longer remembered
they float around like ghosts in these spaces
for where do they go when there is no one left to share the stories?
in a way perhaps I feel am doing them a service
by thinking of them as a way of remembering
just by acknowledging that the time that passed by before
was once the compelling and necessary present.

i would not mind a ghost or two

I was just thinking

don't they deserve to be here?

Holding hands and gazing at the multitude 

"Look, Lovey

look at what we started

when we decided to join hearts all those years ago

look at all the love gathered here:

made, chosen, lost, 

but mostly, sustained."

Just so you know, 

someday 

I plan on being there. 

I plan on making little windows through the clouds,

coming down like molecules of god light

or tip-toeing among the shadowy dreams of my

children's children's children, like:

"Hey there - don't mind me. 

But let me tell you about where you come from,

at least what I know of it."

I plan on watching with a curious smile, 

plan on whispering in their ears

in that whoosh of a disembodied voice.

"You can go on and on, 

it's amazing how you can go on

when you consider

all that has been beautiful

along the way."

I plan on watching delicately

and fluttering their curtains 

or the tongue of a candle flame,

and creaking gentle footsteps upon their stairs.

I do hope it doesn't scare them.

And honestly, I would not mind a ghost or two

looking on with pride

at what has grown and rooted and unfurled

the knowledge passed down in various tomato gardens 

and in the way a little boy casts his fishing line

and the loving preparation of potato candy and 

cheese pepper and onions spread on crackers.

Yes, I hope they are watching

and one of these days

I'd soon like a message from home.

kitchen table

When money was scarce,
we decided to sell almost everything we had
and move across the country
and only keep that which was essential to living and loving
and parenting two babies.
(it was decided books were that,
and a kitchen table was not.)

We rented a small apartment with cousin Sarah
paying $600 a month for not much more
than a roof and some scuffed walls
that held the evidence of other families
and reminded us that belonging is a process.
The hall always smelled like shoes
and the bathroom was carpeted

but we were surrounded by 
the tallest trees I'd ever seen
natural sky-scrapers
and a constant, gentle mist
which made the grass perpetually
the loveliest shade of green
which almost made up for
the late afternoon sunsets
and endless gray winter mornings.

Geese would fly overhead,
announcing their departure
and I loved how the shadows were deep with shades of blue
under the drooping arms of evergreens
and the way the light spilled golden
between the branches
every two weeks when the sun
decided to peer out its hesitant, cheerful face.
Sometimes it rained at the same time,
and I'd never seen the trees steam before.

Anyway, it was in this land
of wonder and seasonal affective disorder
that we decided any kitchen table would do.
But not just any any kitchen table

We salvaged one, round and warped in the middle
and sawed off its legs
and then we took another 
(from the same spot by the dumpster,
probably left by someone else with very little money,
discarding almost everything they own
for adventures half a continent away)
and we sawed off the top
(which, if you can imagine,
is much the same process as sawing off the legs)
and then we put the pieces together,
though they didn't fit quite right
four lovely, spindly legs
and a smooth, sturdy rectangular top.
But it wasn't quite enough -
we (meaning you) sanded and painted and glazed
the most comforting shade of teal.

And upon this table,
we have eaten thousands of meals,
played hundreds of games,
read dozens of books,
and discussed things that made us
laugh and cry and shout.
We have raised four children
and nourished them with food
that sticks to their bones
at this table.
We have iced cookies for Christmas
at this table.
And cut scraps of fabric and thread
for Halloween costumes
at this table.
Daily spills have warped the center
which requires always a large vase of flowers
to cover the imperfection.

And so now, maybe you see why 
I can't trade this old, rickety table
with its aching joints
and scuffed corners
and groaning, wobbly legs
and warped surface
for another, without the memories
or personality of our old teal table
built on the dreams of two people
who moved across the country
after selling almost everything they had
when money was scarce.

spring

it smells grassy and wet, sweet and mellow,
and our fingers are dusty yellow with dandelion pollen,
pockets full and palms full
and plans to make honey
without the aid of the bee.
but we will pluck our flowers and
soak our flowers and
strain our flowers and
boil our flowers
(the bee is gentler,
the bee is slower
and possibly less frantically giddy
about her own process
which she was made to do -
but we are only made to pick flowers
and find excitement in trying new things.
and what new thing does a bee do?) 

dusty haze over the rays from a weary sun,
the life spores of a million trees and flowers
and fruiting things
tickling our nose and eyes, bringing tears,
oh this intermingling beauty and pain.
pain in the ass, pain in our bones,
pain with impending rainshower
which we can feel, magically,
in our joints like witches,
our one invisible but very real power. 

bare, naked trees, bony and wretched,
don fuchsia and white and pink frills,
like many old decrepit women,
gaunt but oddly decorated in pearls,
with painted red-blotched mouths,
and candied fingernails
and that is all;
winter remembering spring. 

starlings

It was a swelling sea of starlings
that drifted across the sky,
the flat gray of sky
which had refused
for the better part of three weeks
to see a life of brighter things, and I

could hear them:
the frantic flapping of countless wings
and their metallic call, little and shrill
but it was their wings I noticed mostly
and everything else went still.

I forgot about the cars rumbling past,
and my cardigan flapping open,
unaware of even my daughter at my heels,
shivering and barefoot in January's brittle air.

I watched them with an eye more keen
to watch figures flit across a screen
than the black ink spot of a bird 
against a formless sky.

I watched until they became one idea,
one mind, a fluid swarm,
siphoned into a ribbon of silken Braille,
their collective motion
creating billowing images,
a meaning that I could not decipher.

I wonder now what it was all for:
why this January afternoon?
why these hills over which thin grids of neighborhoods lie?
what was so special about my rooftop, my patchwork of green
that they would fly, orchestrated and with purpose,
to the skeletal trees just over there, to settle at once 
and preen their feathers
and share their stories in clacking voices
as well as their berries and half-frozen worms.

Why had I never seen them before?
By the thousands in a flight that became a dance
with a meaning too intelligent,
too instinctual,
for me to understand.

wild

Last year I observed the way 

a tendril from the cucumber plant in my garden 

reached daintily, purposefully

toward the closest things to offer itself -

in this instance, 

the dependable stalk of a sunflower sister.

In the spring, while driving down the highway at 70 miles per hour

I saw a newborn fawn nursing its mother

in a strip of grass near a smattering of trees.

Being the passenger, I indulged in a long look

from the back window

at that vulnerable pair

not ten feet from the edge of the road roaring with machines

Years ago I was witness to a sky -

after driving miles into the hill country,

after the earth had completed a rotation:

the glittering depths and heights I'd missed in the glare of

porch lamps, street lights, city lights

and I tried counting the falling stars

whipping their wild tales behind them.

Have you seen these wild, untamed things?

Have you woken up before the dawn,

looked in the mirror and held in wonder

your own hair, your skin, your precious face as it is:

as it is, all wild and naked and true

with its folds, its angles and dimples, and soft places.

Have you listened closely

and heard not the rush of traffic,

but instead, the rush of blood pounding in your temples

and the breath that passes hot behind your teeth?

Have you felt the wild pulse of your heartbeat

while in the embrace of knowing trees,

or dizzy under a great, foreboding sky,

or at the threshold of a fickle ocean,

or on lush, green foothills 

alive and alive and bursting with life?

We were meant to feel how the earth shifts underfoot

To eat the dirt from which we were shaped

To know the slant of the sun and the direction of mosses

To climb until it hurts and let our eyes roll wildly in our skulls

And all of it is so good! it's what he spoke into being,

our goodness.

So what if we trust our wild selves

as we trust the wild to itself,

and we don't have to offer anything for

we are already wild.

a trade

How quiet my mind
how clear the silence
like an evergreen twinkling night
when I shut the door to that shouting house
where knowledge and argument and evidence
hold me hostage,
and I walk off into the cool, clear evening
breathe it sharp into my lungs,
feel my head swim in the emptiness of it all,
how good it feels.

You see,
it all comes down to that desire
to be correct, right, good, fair, knowing -
which may sound noble
but I require the ability to be constantly so,
at every moment, if possible.
I only just realized the exhausting
implications of upholding this impossibility.
I am exhausted.

Trying to contain it all,
cradled in my arms like a thing I must protect,
the delicate ice crystals of words that must not offend, 
intentions that must not be misconstrued.
But I can't see straight, I can't think straight
all they do is tell me how I've failed.
This was not a loving house
And it was not built by my hands alone,
yet I alone have chosen to stay.

But I don't have to be subject to this.
I will try something new:
what if the shouts
became chatter
became whispers
became silence.

What if I release the constant scramble of words
that echo and bounce about in my mind?
I could settle my shoulders, my tightly wound arms
dropping the restraints of expectation,
reach instead for
tenderness.

What if I fold myself gently into all I see as good,
care not what the world does, as long as I know
I am wrapping myself in kindness
leaving littles glimmers of it in my wake.

What if I allow you space to
live in the lightest truth you know,
that space in the air 
between the decision to leap and
(I just love love love you
regardless of) where you land.

What if I choose to be walking evidence
of the human experience, all of it
without apology or explanation,
and I let you come to your own conclusions.

What if I talk about flowers
and Jesus
and my children
and what I had for lunch
and the gentle face of a white moth
and how the dusty sunbeams stream through the window
and the deep, jeweled purple of a plum
even if it makes you laugh.

What if I just speak in love -
yes, I'll make this trade:
complaints for love
sarcasm for love
judgment for love
criticism for love.

What if the silence became whispers again,
but whispers of truth, encouragement, loveliness,
every good and perfect thing.
What then?