The Swan

 

I dreamed of the swan who made the night long

by dying on the shore of the hours

where you and I walked on storm-bent stalks

who mistook the gale for a shower

of sweet memories

that turned into these

orphans who talk and talk

of some lost song they learned from the dawn

that was filled with falling flocks.

I dreamed of the swan who kept your heart

beneath its wing for a year

until it left on the golden breath

of your conscripted volunteer

who saved you from

the things you'd done

that turned your fingers sharp

on the mandolin you used to win 

those you loved to death from the start.

________

for The Sunday Muse #249. 

Evening

I am brushing butter and garlic across slices of bakery bread,
but also resting my cheek in the crook of your arm
a thousand miles from here.

There is steam from a green ceramic pot
in my kitchen with sunflower fields in ruffles at the windows,
but there is also your skin as warm as a sunned quilt.

I am leaning for your lips like a willow over water,
but also standing on Italian tile
with a plate forgotten in my hand like a dove from a distant dream.
_____

for Sunday Muse # 90.

If, In The Morning

If, in the morning

you wake alone,

it is because it has rained while you were sleeping--

drops suspended from pear blossoms

like fruit in dreams.

If, in the morning

you miss me,

let our love be blackbirds' feet

wrapped around stems of marsh grass.

In afternoon, the sliced loaf

drips with blackberry jam. 

_____

A 55 for my BFF.

In The Rhambangle

In the rhambangle, the climbing vines
looped themselves up and through the latticework
like emotions falling from a dream.

You loved the soff birds who made their nests
in the high corners; feathered deities
without ceremony but stuffed fat on our adoration anyway.

I liked your boots, especially tucked beneath a wicker chair 
in the moonlight, lost to your feet
but called snarfdiffanous by the avante garde among the moths of local wing.

I haven't said it well, I realize. My sunglasses kept the words
after I first saw them in morning light.
It's lalamilty, so they say, making these sounds no string nor key would own,

but I keep trying, because I love you and your shossy half-turned smile.
________

for "Stuff & Nonsense' with Rommy at Real Toads. She asks that we use her invented words rhambangle, snarfdiffanous, and lalamilty. Soff and shossy are my own. 

Post Card

I wonder if this is normal?
If you were here, you would not care that the sheets were plain.
You would hold up your finger,
gently, testing me for concussion
and you would find me to be the same as I ever was--

unable to name the date, the address of this hotel,
or the President of the United States, but I never could anyway.
Oh, love of my heart,
he can't close such unhurried lips around that finger--
let alone each one in turn as the windows turn coral, then azure.

Where did you go?
I must have fallen asleep, and when I was awakened
by the hotel doctor and the day shift desk clerk,
you had gone. "Who?" they ask. "Who?'
Beautiful One, I can't remember your name--forgive me!
But I remember your bare hip, the rise and dip that God Herself envies.

I was made to leave the hotel, and the emergency room as well.
I bought a post card with a dollar I found nested in mud
beside a building in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
My hand, the one you held, the one you kissed and guided
between your legs as you spoke my name,

stopped, palsied, when I tried to address the card for you.
Where do you live? What is the name of the street
where you watch, every morning, the windows turning coral, then saffron?
How much postage will carry my heart to you, immediately?
Why can't I remember anything, darling, except that moment when I was happy,

as you stretched out, soft-skinned on top of me
and I knew everything, and nothing, and loved you so much?
_________

for "Kerry Says: Let's Send A Post Card" at Real Toads.  

213B

In this wing, on this floor, in this room ("my" room)
I assume she must be a woman,
though I'm not sure and
don't care.

She is wound and stitched like a baseball.
She has soared, and fallen,
rolled and stopped.
She is Icarus, that precious dumb-ass, with hawk-heart and glider balsa.

Put this on her (his?) chart:
I love her. All of my poems, scratched out left-handed through a
fog of medications, are fragments of the cosmos,
stanzas of burst confetti stars,
and oh,
oh,
how I do go on.

All night, she alternates between coma and suffocation,
drawing moth-nurses at 3 a.m. to the light that is her.
They coo, stick, shock and revive her,
and though stumbling residents up to their eyeballs in vending machine coffee hold the paddles,
it is the nurses who coax her back like sirens on some rocky shore.

She is Ulysses. She is Gina Lollobrigida, Madonna and Sylvia Plath.
How can I sleep in such a crowded room, which expands like a heart
with her every dream, her every sigh?

Dawn comes, and the murder of dark birds that is her family arrives.
They cock their heads and strut along the top of the divider.
"Are you going to finish that?
The jello?
The July issue of Redbook?
Life itself?" 

If I could handle weaponry right now I would scatter them,
but a pen is all I have--
that, and the raw, almost painful devotion I have come to have for her.
Doctors and friends shake their heads.
"You have to want to get well." 

Oh mercy, look at me. 
If she lay her beautiful bandaged head on my breast,
I would grit my teeth and not scream;
I would pet her and whisper to her like a velvet bell in the House of the Holy Concubines
and then I would pass out, from joy and pain.

They want to transfer me to another floor, to a place
--they say--
where I can get the type of care a woman like me needs.
They talk to me as if I were crouched on a ledge, twenty floors above the parking lot and threatening to jump,
but I am simply in love. Is that so hard to understand?

(End note, written during a break by Cheryl Durban, R.N.)
Patient transferred to psych this morning, but left behind these notebooks full of uncommonly beautiful poems. The roommate's name was on the first page, but roommate is PVS and family says the books aren't hers and to throw them away. Alert janitorial; I can't be the one to do it.)

My Cat Child

My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.

Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.

You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the piss and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.

Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing. 

But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my sex, 
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.

Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a damn,
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
_______         
     

Bird

I took a bird from your hair when I was kissing you
--or, perhaps, I placed it there.
You see, I become as forgetful as surf, as unreliable as air.

That night, I carried my stolen bird inside my sweatshirt,
the one you lifted off my arms,
to sample the warm melt of me, a lighted wick within a wax-filled jar.

That night, the bird sang, causing the moon to rise.
How can you send me away, alone,
when the sun is none the wiser and my heart, like my bird's,

beats so rapid--poor brief thing!-- and so strong?
_____

The Paradox Of Rails

Travel by rail has always been my favorite.
Look Ma, no driver, at least none that can be seen.

In this way, the double rail makes sense to me,
guided as I am 
by faith on one hand

and intuition on the other, 
like a pair of Gypsy rings.

Over time, and with the blessing of both dove and crow,
I have taken to wearing sweaters as loose and full as folded wings.

My homing instinct is strong, seeking the pulse at your throat
and the curve at the small of your back;
mistaking your dark hair

for the cricket black
of the best September nights.

I love you. You know that. I always will, 
despite the uncertainty of schedules and
the paradox of rails each depending on the other

to be there, despite knowing
that they will never meet--

like separated lovers, or 
the perfect synchronicity of wingbeats.

The Beauty of God

madmen in masks
suicide bombers
sunday saints
gay bashers
excluders
killers
liars.

my own life out of balance, too.

a spur of the moment stop,
no one else in the sanctuary,
I considered Christ on his cross,
poinsettias in profusion below his wounded feet.

the peace
and beauty
of God came into me
and it felt like love,
like respite,
like hope.

all motherless creatures will understand
why I cried, as a person can sometimes do,
when undone by the touch of silent kindness.
_______ 

 

The Bone Cage

Do not mistake the bone cage for the free wing.
One is just a draped cloth,
and the other, oh honey,
is everything.


I love you for talon and soft breast, both.
Whether we're gray or black,
with wings we're born,
and so formed, can go.

Do not mistake the bone cage for the sky entire.
One is filled and forgotten,
while the other finds its own
with endless unbordered desire.
________

I think the image, which I found at weheartit.com, looks like my love.

I am greatly saddened to hear of the passing of one of my lifelong favorites, Joe Cocker. So here he is.

 

 

You

I was thinking about you,
as the fan hummed in the window--
as the stars spun slowly above my little street--

I couldn't help myself from thinking about you,
as five white birds skimmed over the near rise--
while their mirror sisters gathered--
first one,
then two,
into their warm nest--
the other three fluttering near.

I was thinking about you, Sweetheart.
Did birds fly across the stars outside your window?
Did you know?
 

Heaven

Hey, babe,
it's me.
Your same old girl
who fell out of the sky--
slipped up from the sea.

These days,
there's not as much of me left.
I'm light as a breeze,
the way I used to be--
but with more things before--
not as many next.

I love you, sugar,
like a black-faced ewe loves 
milkweed and sunflowers.
I'm always at sixes and sevens,
eternally wool-gathering,
eternally wandering watersides and bowers.

Here's an old path we could take,
or here's another--
which one d'you like?
When I was a girl, a lot of times, I'd be a bird,
but there are sea-songs, too--
and I try, at night, to work out the ones
floating like lilies in my dreams, half submerged, half heard.

Take my hand, sweetheart,
and if anybody's watching us,
then let them be jealous.
There is a shore road, 
and also a way through the fields where the warblers are.
Either way,
you and me, babe, we're Heaven-bound--

though I couldn't say by what direction,
or tell you, honey, how far.
_____

for KJ.

image: Alicja Bachleda from the movie "Ondine".  

Apropos Of Nothing

Apropos of nothing,
these thoughts,
this poem;
this moment and this room.

I've been pondering oddities:
sundogs,
Marfa lights,
rings around the moon.

Unbidden,
unchanged--
love...love itself,
and my crave called love for you.

I'll not always be here;
behind this door, ajar--
my heart, this house, vased iris,
as far fragile these things are.

I've been pondering sanctities;
my dogs,
cool nights,
things said kept entre nous--

Unbidden,
unchanged--
love...love itself,
and my crave called love for you. 
_______
 
for Kerry's non-challenge at Real Toads.

How A Girl Gets To Your Door

I find my way by landmark--
compass points a confusion;
my map margin-ed with love poems.

The train station wasn't landmark friendly--
Signs, riveted in place by men in boots on cherry pickers,
knew me for a foreigner.

In my northern accent, I asked a woman--
By the University? Black coffee eyes? Soft lips?
Castlerock.
__________

for flash fiction 55 with hedgewitch, at Real Toads this weekend.

 

In The Graveyard

In the graveyard,
I found lots to do.
I did it, and did it fine, several times and
without you.

In the graveyard,
I made a totem, out of oak leaves and sticks.
I woke Kathryn, wife and mother,
and together, we hit the bricks.

"Kath, babe," I said, as we sprung the grounds crew's traps,
"Wear my jacket. Feel the leather. It's your size."
Then we danced on the roof of the grounds crew's shack,
and that was a lively enterprise.

Later, by the chain link fence,
I held Kath's head on my lap.
I leaned down and kissed her, Mister Kath, Son of Kath.
Now, what d'you think about that?

That evening, by the mausoleum,
she confided that she rarely sees 'em.
Fair enough, quoth Kath, while kicking her feet;
it's been years and years since they saw me.

Boo. It's us. The graveyard girls from plot forty-five.
Dirty as bird's nests, slipping out the gate,
devil-may-care, revived, alive,
with wive's tales to perpetuate.
_________

 

Denim and Linen

Beneath my bracelets,
my blood moving.

On my fingers this morning,
just one ring.

Denim and linen
softly familiar.

Lie on your back--
I will be white and blue of cloud and sky.

What did you do with your life, they'll say.

I wore bracelets,
rings,
denim and linen--

I lived.
I breathed. 

For you.
_____

a 55. Visit the G Man for more.

Wide Brimmed Hat

I like a wide brimmed hat;
as if I could keep myself secret from the sun--
as if I could remain only a rumor to the rain.

I might wear it when I meet you beneath the clock in front of Filipe's.
Facing away, I will pretend interest in a passing autobus.

If I wear my wide brimmed hat and my big sunglasses,
then there will be fresh sheets on the bed tonight.
If I wear no hat, and keep my glasses up on my hair,
then I have found a stern gray god
and will soon be gone, to a mission in the hills.

This latter seems unlikely,
as fond as I am of my wide brimmed hat--
as vital to my style
as the ears that crown a cat.

Let the bus go by--
let me shyly dip my head as I turn,
so that my wide brimmed hat will hide the look in my eyes.
Hussy I am, 
and hussy I'll die,
but let's pretend just for now.

In my rented nest, you can cast yourself 
as the Seeker after Truth--
take my glasses lightly with your fingertips,
as the waiters do their trays when they pass the booths
at Felipe's. Give the lie to my girly lace--
remove it as if it were a stubborn student, and the Mistress--you.

A different fate for my wide brimmed hat, though,
I must beg. In exchange for my kisses bartered,
let it hang upon the post at the foot of my bed,
at a pleasing angle,
light blue ribbon cascading weightlessly down

like a lover's moon
after midnight above the Seine.
_________

for my Fireblossom Friday challenge at Real Toads: "The clothes make the woman"

Juniper Berries

Use juniper berries to season blackbirds.
For best results, 
serve them in the middle of the night--
wake your guests from their claustrophobic nightmares
with the ringing of small bells.
Offer relishes, garnishes,
cold water from a cistern,
and, if necessary,
warm illumination from shattered lantern glass and kerosene.

None of this will make you miss her any less.
None of this will make you forget how her long black hair felt
wrapped around your fingers or
trailing slowly across your breasts.
It is too much to ask of a juniper berry to restore sweet skin
where you are now nothing more than ropey white waste from old burns.

However, when you withdraw from the panic-scented chambers 
where your offered dish has been refused,
you may then feel free to retire.
Go moan into a backwards wind,
imagining feathers the color of her hair.
Capitulate to a nest of new misery
and an egg to enter
like time,
like regret,
like a hard beak-shell that will presently vomit you,
caroling poetry,
into Hell.
_______

Ruination

My love complained
that, within my brain,
my heart,
my soft little breast,

behind my deflections,
my affectations,
and all the rest,

she found me unknowable,
impenetrable,
mad, melancholy and inexplicable.

Is it (I asked)
the lazy way I've dressed?
or the time I've spent lounging as a lady may do
of an afternoon in my machine gun nest?

Why now, why this way?
Why when my hair is not looking its best?
Are there any other serpents caught in the lace
that you'd like to get off my chest?

To me, this seems unfair,
this demand of me to share
my moon
my stars
my air.

She said, you are a broken bird
whose beak is too silent and dark
to say the words that speak my mind
or ever hold my heart.
_______