Dead all this time


There are those days I think I hear the clocks stop

afternoons tripping over one another to be over

the stutter of the phone, rippling into the house

as if it could gladden us with your voices.


The wind would like to blow you from our fingers,

but it cannot – these joints exactly yours

these eyes, too.  Even dogs smile in their generations

with memories of all that food gladdening their stomachs

in their one thought world.


What has it been like, being dead all this time?

We have seen the sun rise up and get swallowed into the hills

traced ourselves along all sorts of highways

in cardinal directions – like yours – and failed to fill those diaries

because the way life curls about keeping spin and cycle

growing into changeable fluxing continuous.


Now, we look at our photographs and see

it does come to good. If I could introduce you to your offspring

what smiles they would make for you.





You Make me into A Tree


You make me into a tree.

With your sunrise eyes

and your cloudy breath 

that blew you to me

and folds these leaves over, one by one.

I am bone-branches.  I am these jointed twigs.

I am thickets lichened up and berried.

I have sat still so long for you

 with roots tendrilling

 the earthy ground.

All these places for you to climb.

All these hollows in my body for living in.

I hold myself to the sun

with my leaves in the gusty wind.


Shit O’Clock


The wide shouldered yardarm 

is no help

not even with his promise that soon

this will end.


You have broken two glasses

your sister is locked out in the rain;

our food is burning;

we all have bare feet.

And even as I pick you up

and lay you out on your back

(writhe and squark as much as you like)

to lift the steaming fabric

and wipe you clean

even as I show her how to lift that lock

for the hundredth time

even as we sweep up the fangs of glass

and needle in your brother’s foot

to see if a shard got in there

even as I shout for you all

to come and eat this lucky food

I know

both hands are moving

north and south

I have put that bottle

on the counter;

I will drink its redness away.


But it is not so sweet as this.




Poetry, Uncategorized

Core flutter

something was about to change

my heels as light as magnolia petals, as see through

(i have been reading too much Didion

leafing through the book of possibilities)

the oxygen in this room proliferates indelibly

something in the way he slid down next to me

slipped into my wrinkled mind

slept there for a night or two

as Hemingway or someone from long ago

magical thinking has dream-warped time.

(I have been reading too much poetry

and talking to myself at the washing line)

as if I could lather my mind and this would be gone

like a stain, like a lack of stretch or self awareness

that sees a blank in others, this birdcall at dusk

that will never be repeated.

I count my footfalls now and don’t trust the simple

time flow charts. Things can pivot in a second.

I write to see what I think

and throw it into the wind’s jaws.