Saturday, April 24, 2010

let it be now


























A trail of orange maggots feasting on your potted plants.
The paint peeling from a gap in the walls where rain
rudely sidled in. Dust camouflaging the top of your bureau.
Mail like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. A poem
at a standstill, your words like dough deprived of yeast.
The collision of artifacts in your garage.
Sunlight decimating the butter dish.
The closet bulging at the seams.
Your heart, an obstacle course of apology and need.
The front door swollen at the corners,
laundry from your trip barring the beeline to bed.
A freezerful of meals you’ll never eat,
your mind a hamster wheel of what ifs,
the mirror wagging her finger at your deficits,
the way you hum yourself to sleep
with your catalog of solitudes.
The broken handle, spent light bulb, unsalvageable
zipper, cracked dishware, dismantled belief,
hope hiding under a thick blanket of complaint,
how you accumulate what needs discarding,
how you forgive what needs to witness pain,
loss disguising as regret, yearning masking as contentment,
a stain you scrub until your hands are raw,
shoes too precipitous for the long city blocks,
the toaster that keeps burning your breakfast,
fault lines of an earthquake you know is coming,
how you shoulder against sadness, the lies
you tell to gloss over your rubble, the pair
of pants you are safeguarding in the closet
when your body decides, for once, to cooperate,
the stories of your heroic triumph or tragedy,
the dark sky you hold back with the fluorescent glare
of your kitchen, the pages of the book
you fall asleep to but never finish,
the dull newsreel rolling in your mind,
all that evidence of your unmagnificent living.

When are you going to put it all down?
When will you pluck yourself from under the terrible spotlight
you insist on training your disrepair, your unfinished business?
When will you refuse your own brutality?
When will you decide each chapter of your feeble existence
has exhausted itself of endings?

Let it be now.
Let this unheralded night signal
the death of your diminishment.
Let this unremarkable hour
celebrate the close
of every incompletion.
Let this ordinary moment deliver amnesty
from your imprisonment.
Let your body open
to the freedom it can’t even begin
to imagine.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

jigsaw
























love and fear
sweetness, tear
fuchsia pink and stone cold grey
inside beauty, too much thigh
close up and longer view,
tinny buzzer, music to dance to,
lion roar, silence golden
drawn-out hunger, quick satisfaction,
believe me and trust yourself
clean out closets, fix the shelf
me and you
me and me
fractured, whole
piece ourselves
despite ourselves
because this
this
is how we fit

orchid, weeds
wants and needs
landlocked, glacier
quiet, louder
impasse, through
scar, tattoo
forgiveness, unforgivable
one song, a single syllable
the bridge, the great divide
stay here, what’s on the other side
I always want what I can’t have
bleed the wound, find the salve
me and you
me and me
epicenter, galaxy
fractured, whole
piece ourselves
despite ourselves
because this
this is how we fit

cloud and cloudless
blank slate, mess
desert, monsoon
far away and much too soon
winding road, a bull’s-eye mark
a spotlight, hidden in the dark
what’s changed will always be the same
what’s your poison, what’s your game
blurry vision, needle stitch
mosquito bite, a lingering itch
me and you
me and me
come together, fall away
white-hot metal, cooling clay
patience patience, don’t delay
piece ourselves
despite ourselves
because this
this
is how
we fit

and no one can make sense of it
entirety or one small bit
can’t remember, can’t forget
a jigsaw puzzle not to quit
one whole life in every minute
we fit
somehow
we fit.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

poem after surgery

Tablespoons of chocolate pudding.
Gospel music slicing through rain.
Tabloid literature on the coffee table.
Three o’clock in the morning and still awake.
A bright red shirt.
A new pair of walking shoes.
Sex.
Avocados.
Tomato soup.
The two blocks to the train.
The sound of the doorbell.
The heady smell of the cheese shop.
Laughter.
An oval tablet four times a day.
Glasses and glasses of water.
A vase of orange tulips winking open.
The careful art of bathing.
A scar you already love.
Pomelos in the green bowl.
The cry of a distant ambulance.
Scavengers rummaging the recycling.
The twinkle of glass.
The deck, sodden and gleaming.
Dreams of swimming and giant movie theaters.
Your father, the evening before departure.
The heft and softness of his shoulders.
Your mother, fixing up a salad.
The slow peeling of bandages.
Tea.
The back of the woman you love.
Her fingers threading your hair.
A slim filament of moonlight.
Slippers.
The slide toward sleep.

You could start anywhere.
Start here.
Because you know
nothing
will be the same again.
And you know the body
is just the beginning.

Small acts of redemption are hiding
where you least expect them,
inkling seeds burgeoning in the dark soil,
an unseen greening,
in you and out of you,
even if you couldn’t quite bring yourself
to believe it. Believe it.
All that is alive, alive, alive.
And there is no choice now
but to walk into that life,
that infinitesimal,
unfathomable geography,
and allow yourself
at last
to be healed.