So Am I

Two times I swept a spider from its place next to my clock

three times, it has built its web again

I collect her with my fingertips.

I pulled her strings until they snapped

she builds her web

again

again

The feeling is being pulled

carefully into uncomfortableness

and once again I am quiet

She’s quiet but so am I

when I’m this

uncomfortable

December 15

Dear Lord we should have been more careful

Dear Lord we should have been more careful

you and me that superteam, even though it wasn’t always clear

how evenly we split the work and how much you love

me and why we rarely talk anymore. Anyway I thought

the only time our friendship really broke

was when your gentle pause took the breath

right from her chest, couldn’t breathe

once you pressed down, be more careful

next time and don’t leave her broken.

The way the bag of saline was too clear

to be replacing blood, but you must have thought

it was an act of love.

But we should have a talk about love

what it is and why I’m angry you took her breath.

Dear Lord my thoughts

were as clear as that bag of saline, carefully

dripping inside of me, emptying clearly

not into the right place, but give me a break,

sometimes I don’t want to think about things. My heart broke

and you broke it, and you don’t even love

me the way that I love you, it’s clear

I need you, but you don’t need me. You don’t need to breathe,

with you I don’t need to be careful

about what I say to you or watch my thoughts.

But patience arrives, and I think my thoughts

and how when something breaks –

if when it was being built you were careful

enough to watch how it was done – then with love

you can fix it, if you hold your breath

and put your mind to it and if you’re thinking clearly.

Dear Lord when I was born I was clear

and unblemished but you found

these ways to break my trust and take my breath

and that’s nothing compared to what you broke

when you didn’t tell me I wouldn’t get your love.

When you don’t tell me things you should be more careful.

It’s just that my mind was so clear until you broke

something you shouldn’t have and thought that I would always love

someone who doesn’t breathe why weren’t you more careful.

December 15

When You Die, I Tell You

Your soul is crossing the river naked

where the water is sweet and comfortably deep

and if you stretch your arm over the side of the raft

the warmth of the river sticks on your skin.

Somewhere above is the house your grandparents lived in,

and you can smell the garden plants

you can’t name, but will always remember

the scents of a fading afternoon

and the memories fill the hands as a fistful of water

slipping away.

This gradual release feels like a rope being unwound,

feeling the colors come undone,

feeling the drift from one bank to the next.

You are not traveling on this river; this river is down hill

from where you want to be and how deep is it?

You’ve got to make it back to Concord, Massachusetts.

Being midway between the river and the house

it’s difficult to imagine what either extreme feels like

and then you are thinking about how difficult it is to pass

from one raft to the next when you see your soul down hill

lose balance and start to fall and begin to worry

how deep was the river?

I walked into the water until it tugged at my shirt,

drew me closer, whispered just like you.

If I could join you, join myself, join everyone,

the scent is sweet, the plants drowned

in the shallow waters of each spring’s flood.

December 10

Because You Asked

I’ve forgotten how it feels to kiss,

that first bitter taste, that sudden introduction

where the hands shake and the eyes meet

firmly, the confidences shared.

I don’t remember feeling

sweat erupting from my skin,

raising the temperature, snaking

its perfume into the heavy lidded air,

chilling in the open window’s song.

I can’t recall where I’ve heard these words before,

the heaving rise and fall

of their intonation and their sudden weight,

the impulsive silence that they left,

the aftermath

draped by the gentle rise and fall

of the curtains.

No, I don’t suppose that I remember,

but if you insist then it must be so

that I did what you wanted me to.

December 10

Negative Spaces

The sound of our conversation in the car ride

Home where no one speaks, and there is nothing

To break the silence. The music that is

Not on the radio is as loud as it has ever been.

The reproving looks no one is giving me

I wait in the backseat for a decision already made

Patiently is not a way to hug your parents

And I never talk to my siblings that way.

The more people there the more

We felt alone. Younger and older,

The feelings grew and faded away

But always we were returning and returning

To the same place, where we had grown

Together yet learned to hate each other, why love

Love did not work when there was no reason

For it to move beyond “because.”

I stayed in the car but felt closer to my family,

And what a way to avoid their hate. I thought

You can’t hate someone not there but

You can love them all you want.

December 9

When you start to think like me

look at the cracks

the foundation, the walls

still unsettled and uneasy

(from the last time you were here)

what did you expect?

Did you expect novelties,

fantasy in structure, but its the same

as every other room you've ever seen,

disappointed that I live with just four walls,

no tricks, just my thoughts on display?

Enter this room next year,

next month, tomorrow

seconds from now

this room will be different,

floors shifted, walls replaced

but always being what it is

I have room to think.

December 9

Seasons Past

I find them lying on the ground

chewed up, half swallowed,

yellowing into a pulp,

skins curling and peeling.

Am I too late?

Where was I when they blossomed

lightly on the breeze,

forms still full and curved

before the rotting happened.

I am too late to even watch them fall.

My fingers remember the way

the gentle tug (that was all it took)

felt just before they snapped.
This time it was not me.

I am too late or

removed for this.

I cannot bring myself

to pick them from the ground,

carry them with me.

December 9

The Butcher Knife

I was a child when I crept downstairs

that night to lift the butcher’s knife and weigh

its possibilities. Despite what I

assumed about potential and ability,

it meant so much within my grateful hands.

The window light illuminated how

the quick and slick wit blade transformed

into a sturdy, balanced confidence.

                                                                                      

Its power never threatened me:

Instead, I was transfixed to see it work,

revealing, as I watched, the world’s insides,

those weary lessons hanging in their place,

the stories stacked on shelves, the dust refused

to settle from their constant references.

And when the child felt the footsteps sound

above, I was embarrassed until I saw

the blade reflecting my maturing face.

December 9

Some Things

Some interesting poets:

• Frank Bidart
• Michael Dennis Browne
• Galway Kinnell
• Michael S. Harper
• Stanley Plumly.
  William Stafford.
  Carol Muske.