Sheet Spelling
Early am.
I look down on your bare skin
Imprinted, creased
By gravity and untidy sheets
Spelling a ‘y’ here
An ‘r’ there
Can I make out more?
Like,
Where is ‘love?’
_______________________________
Daughter, I’m Talking To You
Daughter,
Do not grow up to be the sort of person who
Wakes up late
Leaves hair on the bathroom counter
The toilet unflushed
Shower grime unseen
Sinks brimming
Dishes scattered
Molds undiscovered
Meals unplanned
Food depleted
Laundry heaped
I need you to be the kind of person who gets
Shit done
Needs fulfilled
Ensures she knows how
And what where when why
Strives for the top
And gets there
Without sacrificing character
Humility
Compassion
Perspective
And all that is good
And make sure you are the type of person who
Knows how to love
You must do it for me, daughter
Atone for your non-existence
_______________________________
The Artists’ Retreat
Things were going
Well or better
A place found for everything
More than everything in its place
Papers sorted, laptop humming
Thoughts collected, words flowing
Into the allocated position in the outline
Born only that day.
The problem was the kitchen.
The first day or two
It was all I could do to enter
Rustle up some porridge
Or desolate sandwich
When over there Ambitious Artist Couple
Transforming a heap of vegetables
Into one curry jambalaya goulash affair
Six-hour bread on the side
Dessert is tall and multi-hued
Wine requisite and good
And I with my pb&j on brown.
Creatives temperamental and moody
I can play that too
Friends in the hall turn surly by the fridge
Hello to one is returned with
The briskness of
Move please I’m looking for my tahini.
Ten agonizing minutes
Of drying the dishes in silence.
_______________________________
For T
Your tender words of love
Given freely like flower seeds tossed on ready soil
You sometimes worry about them.
Are they too many? Too often? Too effortless?
I want to lay the question to rest
For fear of losing the spontaneity of it
I will take as much as you give
The container as wide as the source is abundant
I hear it all and take it in.
What else can I do?
This: Turn it around to its flip-side:
Your love, a gift of water
Spreads about, down, and through
Clear to the eye
Runs rampant to fill every void
In me.
As sure and welcome as spring.
Your touch, a shock of fire
Without the paradox
A kind of perfection
Leaves me with nothing to say
Except the singularity of your body and what it does
To me.
As deep and hot as summer.
Your friendship, a swirl of air
Cushioning my every day and night
A strange blend of ordinary and extraordinary
All timely moments converge
For me.
As present as winter.
Your support, a temple of earth
Warm to the hand
Cool to the foot
Everywhere, but often invisible
Taken for granted except when I need it always
Under me
As beautiful and moving as autumn.
These are the things you do
With me.
The things you have
For me.
The things you give
To me.
And I accept
Their prism-like loveliness.
_______________________________
People Say
People say
That near-death experiences
Renew zest for life.
That there’s no love
Like that for your child.
That people are essentially the same.
That the weather is chaotic.
That you can do anything you want to.
That the world won’t end any time soon.
That there’s nothing new under the sun.
Me? Can’t say for sure.
I can say
That pleasure is
The sight of you (my furtive eyes).
The feel of you (my eager hands).
The touch of you (my expectant skin).
Proximity to you is an excellent thing.
People say that true love lasts.
Me? Can’t say for sure.
I can say
That my true love for you
is lasting.
How lucky
To contain forever in my pocket.
_______________________________
Secrets
What’s your secret?
I ask of him
After one month or three
Of sharing time, food, beds.
He smiles wryly.
That’s for you to find out.
And I do.
The quiet red-haired man
Whom I admired for his knowledge
Mickey of whisky hidden in the door of his car
Compulsive swig at lunch, mid-afternoon, any old time.
He drove down the highway straddling the lanes
Like the aircraft he used to navigate
Before he had to stop.
The tall open-hearted man
Whom I admired for his authenticity
Built a fortress of his home
Collections of artifacts, monuments of paper, paeans to discounted appliances, towers of boxes
A move was immanent, or ten years off
He kept people away from his door
And the chaos off-topic.
The diminutive smiling man
Whom I admired for his passion
Competed for moral points
His father’s grief greater than that of my people.
His uncles’ acts of genocide excused
Incessant use of foreign language when we travelled
As he championed his identity.
The big hairy man
Whom I admired for his strength
His claims of talent in music, dance, scholarship
Demonstrations of which not through enough
To fool the children he pretended to teach
Or the women
He fought hard not to hit.
What’s your secret?
That’s for you to find out
But not until being fooled into naivete
For one month or three
Sharing time, joy, skin
Vested in trust.
No responses yet