It is a thing of beauty
Of paper, finely-wrought
it nestles, woven, there
amongst the branches
solitary yet
peopled by industry
A study in contrasts
it moves me for
I too have sought haven
in fragile places
and like the nest
hold fast
The grackles were not
made of flesh
and bone
They had no feathers
nor silvered tips
They were made
of wood and
splinters
In my fitful sleep I
saw through them
My eyelids flickering
I watched them
cackling and snapping
bickering around the
open fire
Fearsome gossips
scratching at the dirt
waiting for their
meat
It shimmers there
waiting.
A discovery
beholden
to a memory.
Unspoken
Kept safe.
Not quite fog this
thick and sodden
blanket that
envelops me.
The very temperature of
blood, it comforts me,
but leaves me
damp with maudlin
melancholy.
These climes are
made for
thought ful ness
and
quiet resolve,
for certainty.
The earth
is oozy underfoot.
Like cake
left out too long,
she has begun to
founder.
And yet,
she is alive with
feedlings,
emergent and
determined.
Their pace a pulse
to mark the beat
of our dark histories
passing.
Last night I dreamt
my teeth fell out.
There they were,
All in a line.
All
lined
up.
The dentist said:
It was unexpected but,
not unheard of.
Big dinosaur teeth,
like ancient artifacts
set out for
inspection.
December 2015
My husband asked me for an anchor.
What gift is this to ask a wife?
He laughed, but still
persisted.
Where we are now, we begin again.
Through roiling seas
this holds us fast.
Holds us fast
to the bedrock
buried deep
in the waters of our
shared ancestry.
I think of you,
my sister lost to me.
I wonder
at your arrival.
What did our mother wear?
Was her hair matted against her brow?
And when she saw you,
did she gather you into her arms?
Could she love you for a moment,
a singular moment when
she looked to you to breathe,
to cry?
But there was nothing.
A life cut short too soon.
I cannot ask, for this is not my mourning.
But still I feel it.
A soft keening in the night hours.
She mourns you still
with her unacceptable anguish.
I feel it too, but lesser of course.
For with you, there could be no me
And so in a way I am grateful.
At 3am I wake.
A catalog of lists
revolves inside my head
Endless things to do and say
ideas that will
not stop.
But I am weary.
I do not want
false friends.
My body craves
a dreamlessness
that hovers
just outside of reach.
I toss and shift,
eyes open,
alert, watchful.
I am ready,
but for what?
I sigh, turn again
and start to count.
Sleek as an otter
your fishy flesh flashes
quick silver in the hot light of noontime.
In the murky dark your skin stands stark against it,
before disappearing once again.
You are
in your element.
Undeniable.
There is no you, no it, no other.
Just light, movement, splash and sinew.
You slip through my fingers.
Just when I thought I had you
you are gone.
Eyes tight shut
deep breath
I pinch my nose.
Now. Now!
I leap.
Legs wide
elbows out.
I am
suspended,
before I fall and fall
and then
water rushes up to meet me.
I am under.
Sucked into
murky depths of
muddy blackness.
Knees buckle to break my fall,
mud squeezes through my toes,
I push now,
up and up,
I kick and fight for the light.
Sensing the surface I feel
the light on my face,
the water warmer and
my face meets the air.
Oh the air! I gasp.
Exhilaration rips through my chest
and at last I breathe,
deeply, longingly, I breathe.
Floating now,
water billows about me,
holding me,
I surrender.
It was such a pitiful cry
like something animal,
a mewling.
We did not know
at first.
Then we ran,
our hearts knowing,
our legs moving
before thinking.
Twisted and frightened
you lay crumpled.
Like a pile of laundry
left outside in the rain,
grass-stained and sodden-wet,
all of a boy in a fearful jumble,
hard to piece together.
We gathered you up
and carried you in.
We iced your bruises,
and fed you chocolate.
All tenderness and efficiency,
we felt carefully
for breakages.
Today you fell too far from the tree,
but tomorrow you will climb again.
We will hold our breath
and try not to be watchful
for tomorrow you will climb again.
i have come
undone
she said
i am
unraveling
i’ve got you
he said
no
she said
you are
too late
it’s already
begun.
I’m thinking of you today, she said,
it’s a hard day.
I blinked, pulled up short.
The meaning of the day now cast anew.
I had been celebrating
with my son’s father and
my husband’s father and
I was not thinking of him.
I wasn’t thinking of his “Would you terribly”s and “Ever so kinds”.
Of his polyester pants and the chemistry stains.
Of the Sunday roast in his wingtips and tie,
and the cups of tea forever.
I wasn’t thinking of his inky fingers and scrappy mustache,
Of the morning crossword and his fountain pen,
Of the crumpets at tea time and the curries on Friday,
and the beer and smokes forever
yes, the beer and smokes forever.
Softly, he pads through the brush,
snout forward, tail low,
sniffing the air.
His hunger is sharp,
metallic on his tongue.
Within, a low rumble of unease
disturbs the roost.
Still somnolent they stir.
Feathers tremble as fear folds in
like the evening mist.
He sees them now, his pulse quickens.
Salivating he starts to pant,
smelling the promise of a
belly full.
At the very bottom of the
embroidery box
lies a tangled mess of thread.
The skeins are loose,
no longer tightly bound.
The ends frayed,
colors fatally faded.
Careworn hands that
once held family together,
stitch by stitch,
now struggle to straighten.
She smoothes her skirt upon her knee.
Staring absently, she recalls a life
negligent with its neglect
of the necessary.
She sees that now.
What mattered.
Picking at a loose thread
she tries to tie it off,
to make it right.
Small voices carry through
the thick and languid air of evening.
The scent of honeysuckle is rising
yet still they play.
Calling to each other, chattering
like chickadees, they chase
and flit from tree to gentle tree.
I hear them,
counting now.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6 ….
“Careful!”
An older voice.
Night draws on.
It is past suppertime, but
time yawns and stretches,
reluctant to relinquish the day.
Demands of bus and homework
pushed aside.
These are the long days of
bug bites rubbed raw
and ice-cream in the afternoon,
just because.
There’s crying now, murmurings of comfort
and chastisement.
Wounds are soothed and tears are wiped,
it’s time to go to bed.
Not quite captured, yet
not quite free.
Your scaly skin
curls around my wrist, almost
a caress.
In vain you reach for me,
with teeth too small to
pierce my skin.
You are nonetheless
relentless.
This struggle offers no surrender.
You sense my fear, you
anticipate.
And though this is
no even match,
you may outwit me yet.
Why does the mocking bird
sing at night?
You are so loud,
calling for your mate.
My insomniac friend,
you are
pitiful company.
Shadows loom large
in our hours of wakefulness.
I cannot sleep for worry
and regret.
And yet, sleep does come.
Unconsciously I yield.
Giving up, too tired
to bother.
My pencil my solace
slipping from my hand.
The silver spoon
sits upon the kitchen
table, tarnished and
stained with tea.
What can it tell me of you?
I know the sound it makes
against the cup;
the clink tink of
polite conversation.
I know too its shape
upon the back of
my tongue.
Its sticky sweetness
and the tang of metal
against my teeth.
Felt to the marrow.
Our hearts hum in unison
as the steam snakes
upward and we slowly warm
ourselves.
Tumbling, falling
into bed,
you are
all sweet-smelling
and sweaty softness.
Sleepy-eyed and
tousle-haired.
A tangle of love
for me to get
caught up in.
We lie, half-awake
and contemplate the trees.