the body as I am

miraculous, really, for its penchant
for changing, one day in the mirror
greying hair, greying hair and almost 35,
one day loose-limbed and the next stiffly
arching out of sleep, hesitant out the door,
back seizing in revolt at the mere lifting
of a grocery bag, but then, another day,
light as a cream puff, nimble, lilting
toward a nephew waking from an afternoon nap,
and all is right again, aligned, exactly
as it was on day 1, that forgiveness of birth,
that perfect, articulate verging.

Waking late on a Saturday, it is hard to say
what keeps me in bed later still, through coffee
and toast, through the last chapter of a mediocre book,
through a phone call, through a morning that began
with sunshine, silence, the launching pad
of a morning like that, and still
I kept the ship docked,
inert, swaddled in blankets, not wanting to rise
and face...what, exactly, I'm not sure -
the bad surprise of an aching hip? dry patches
on my foreheard? something faltering, failing indiscriminately
without so much as a warning?

What I really want to tell you is the dream
I had last night, me in a strange city,
holding a strange child with bright red hair,
not mine, not mine, and yet I wanted her
so badly to be mine, or something like her
I clutched at this small person
and wished for my own, ached for motherhood,
some definitive graduation into age, maturity,
the rewards of passing through this and this test,
I cried for something I hadn't yet made,
I was a rage of regret, a kind of derelict impotence
borne of waiting too long, letting time go by
in the way it always did - quickly, irreverently -
and not remembering to take advantage of what
had been given to me since birth -
the right equipment to forecast other births,
the goods to make good.

It was hard, waking, to remember myself, the body
as I am, each inquisitive stretch of an elbow,
the hope of my shoulders, the give
of buttocks, the flex of my long and bony feet,
and I was sorry only for every ache of time
lodging its complaints in the mirror,
those creaking evidences I found daily
in the folds of my skin, the rumple of my hair.

I didn't recognize the morning for what
it was, the rise out of darkness,
the innocence I cradle daily
in my arms, my whole life pulsing before me,
and sliding, like some nascent thing, into
the next improbable molting,
carrying all that history still to come.

on not taking photographs during vacation

It's not that Portland didn't call
for snapshots. In fact, it was lucidly cold
and the ducks that remained on the river
looked so happy, and the snow was there,
falling sexily, lusciously, like eyelashes,
and along the sidelines of a city park,
the dogs frolicked and chased
the last brave pigeons holding out
for whatever crumbs might fall.

But something of the tourist's heart broke down,
broke free and fled. That practiced muscle,
which aims solely to capture and collect,
the eye that frames four corners and believes
in the certainty of precious, fleeting things,
the willing body angling itself toward
the deciduous beauties of winter -
the tourist could not meet the gaze
of this city, its beneficent welcome,
the tidy clatter of its streetcars, the moony stretch
of water cushioning its shores.

It's possible the avenues felt
too much like home, familiar, easy,
surprisingly unexotic, and that the camera
remained in the glovebox because being here
wasn't at all like being in Paris,
with its eccentric curves and splashy backdrops,
its violin-hewed bridges and arching angles,
its tumescent kisses and theatrical lovers and wafts
of baking bread.

No, this was simpler, smaller,
kinder on the feet and so free of crowds
the tourist felt like she almost owned the place,
as if all these blocks were hers,
as if the skyline was still young and tender, discoverable.

Here, there was no need to explain,
through closeups of haphazard gardens
or the occasional squirrel flitting
through the trees, or quippy store signs or
the orbs of local produce at the farmers' market -
what she was doing here, exactly,
nothing she needed to offer,
no sense of place, or placement, or order,
no tangible something to anchor her earthward.

It's not that she didn't want anchoring.
She did, but not by the images she could capture
or the memories she could itemize.
She wanted to be anchored
by her own skin, the body it contained,
she wanted placement with this again,
her own landmarks and geography,
each dip and zenith and bend in the road,
each fraction and wholeness,
every causeway and peninsula,
each shimmying, electric thrill of a detour.

What she wanted was to return
to maplessness, to luck, to the
pure white light of letting go.

So the ducks remained unphotographed
for the five days of her visit, and the river
wended its way uncatalogued,
and the dogs jounced cutely and were left alone
to scurry in the snow with the birds.

And the tourist, too, faded into the scenery,
eased herself from the work of being seen,
of needing to see, of having to take such strict
and strident notice. She let herself
go soft focus, and leaned into the wind,
caught the cold square in the face,
unprotected from a lens, armor, excuses,
she leaned into the cold wind
and began the harder work
of standing still enough
to pay attention.

report card

she's an odd kind of dreamer
tries out different storylines for size
imagines the forks in a highway she's already driven
can lose direction, focus, creativity if the weather's bad
will find noises frustrating
will be distracted
will be incensed
will not be lucid
so she will lose track of time
whole months, gelatinous
the skein of her thoughts knotted, woolly, almost irreparable
her body a dull mass of minor-key questions
her breath, shallow and intemperate
and her desk will be the only solid thing
she'll feel close to, its hard, square
exactness, the right angles, the way
it never apologizes for its size
she will align herself for weeks at a time,
a season even, bind herself
to the kind of imagination borne
of solitude and half-despair
easily wooed by the shadows,
the unforeseen, the face behind the mirror,
she is not always to be relied upon for good humor
she will forget there are others in the room
she will make a mess out of a puddle
can trip on twigs, small stones, her words,
will keep secrets, macroscopic undoings
just bridling under her skin
she will contain herself yet
unlatch so easily
explode, then disassemble
she will peter out and disappear if you let her

but
if you tell her you will not be leaving
that despite her great efforts to widen her berth
and eliminate the possibility of anyone touching her
if you tell her you will not be leaving
there will be these breaks in the weather,
grand swaths of honest sunlight
bright, undulating fields
emerging in new growth
and she will be unable to resist them,
will hover like an agile bird
in that glorious reprieve of warmth
will not hesitate to quiet the flapping of her wings,
will not hesitate to close her eyes to catch the breeze
she will gentle her arms to her sides
and fall to the earth like a feather
soft, lovely, full of forgiveness and easy hope
and she will let herself be still
she will let herself be loved
she will let herself be beautiful
she will let herself free.

grace, revisited

we are a rash of jellyfish
the impact of sandbars
the pool of a soapdish
the haranguing of cars
a collision of windows
a dim wash of pain
the pointing of arrows
the hardness of rain
repetitions of error
and platters of need
a boxful of terror
a whinnying greed
and yet, in the dark,
with our love at our side,
we are loyal as bark,
clutching hope like a bride
we forget what's been said
we surmount our distress
we lose track of our dread
our unfixable mess
and the night keeps us still
while our feebleness dies
then the sun breaks the chill
and thus lightened, we rise.