exit wound.

i missed the day you left

busy with the dishes and the carpet

someone had spilt

again

and the music was on

the phone was ringing 

and i never heard the door swing

shut over the laugh track

they left playing on the sitcom

i was trying to ignore

you were gone

before i even realized

i had made you a goodie bag

with your favorite things

and a note saying

"when finished being lost

please return to

36 Orchard Lane

Sugarland"

i suppose you did not want to be reminded.

lost in paris.

she shuffles through the world

like an invalid

a license marked up and expired

no longer valid to be carried

as identification

she was no longer an entity

with a plastic coated identity

just a slip of paper that bends

that crumples and tears 

and blurs at the edges

till the wind carries her away

and someone finds her stuck

to the bottom of his shoe

after peeling her off he decides

if its worth if it

if she could be recycled

perhaps he'll throw her away

its been that kind of day

she shuffles through the streets

with her eyes flat and hair too

and they comment

how thin she is, the wind could carry her

away.

again.

to die is gain.

i'm so tired

seeing you fall again and again

with your outstretched arms 

and your hungry red mouth

that stretches and bends your whole face

and your face turns your head

and your head leads where the body goes

you are so hungry

so very hungry with your stretching arms

and how you fall

you dive you sink

you let it swallow you whole

and still you are hungry for so much more

you always will be

so hungry, so hungry

never satisfied, so unfinished

with all those empty spaces against you

filling your red, red mouth

that was so hungry

seeing you fall

hitting the dust and it curls

around you twisting its slender tendrils

into your soft hair and i watch

you fall in love again

i watch you die

behind my eyelids

i cannot sleep without you falling

i am so tired

Your Birthday Betrayed Me.

sometimes i hate you for this

for making me see you weak

for forcing me to deal with you

and your trembling hands

your sentences that all end

with a quavering question mark

as though you are not sure if you are finished

speaking, or perhaps you simply forgot

what it is you were trying to say

I hate you for doing this

for cutting away with these dull blades

my standalone image of who you are

how your daily naps and tendencies 

to wander room to room looking

for something until you cannot remember

why you stood in the first place

and it hurts deep in my bones

to see you gingerly lower yourself

like a painful porcelain 

into your chair and sigh while settling in

sometimes i hate you for this

for growing old

I always said i wanted to grow up

and be like just like you

now i'm afraid, my wish will come true

greece in the evening

watching you lie there 

against the grass with your hands

thrown wide like some 

over-beneficient god eager to draw

the whole world into their hand

some young venus waiting

for the earth to come to her

i can see your ribs arching

the roof of some ancient cathedral

with your skin shaping the light

like stained glass coating the grass

with shadows of your own grace

and i am struck silent

drawn to worship with a hungry sort of awe

to sit cautiously near you

breathing deeply hoping to slip away 

with something of your essence hidden in my skin

like a secret prophecy stolen from the fumes

silence is your oracle

and shadow your avatar

i am nothing but your acolyte 

as you stretch full your beauty against the ground

and all of nature becomes your backdrop

and nothing of its own

i too want to be yours

and nothing of my own

so i'll write my quiet prayers

leave them carefully on the stone altar

let the zephyr your servant 

carry them away and towards what you are

against the blaze of sunset

I want you to explain

but i can't hear you

over this pounding rain

from the summer hurricane

so i'll keep pushing through

against the grey wind

wishing that i could believe

that you could mend

this wound my friend

why did you leave?

i've decided to stop making myself try

and have found my peace in looking you in the eye

and walking away, into my own calm.

freedom

she woke up standing
in the middle of the street
with her hands outreached
to turn off the blaring alarms
and they didn't know what to do with her
with her loose curls and barefeet
didn't know how to handle her hands
long and slow against the roof of their cars
her little voice growling about mondays
and who hasn't ?
but she was standing still in the street
stretching her slim neck and tucking a yawn away
behind her spare hand
while she ran one small foot up and down
her long legs as bare as can be
slowly waking up
checking, as people do, that they survived the night
that, tongue over teeth, everything is right
or at least in the right place
and shuddering down her spine
with one last shake she was awake

they didn't know what to do with her
and she didn't know what to do with them
all those faces behind the glasses
watching her like something strange
with a bit of rubbing hunger in their eyes
so she sighed and walked away

so much for monday.

purpose?

watching her big sky eyes

and summer wide smile

as she trips across the floor

i suddenly realize

if nothing else

i want to live

to give her

a bigger pair of shoes to fill

son of a civil engineer

one day in a forest i'll find you

shrink myself in the midst of the great spears

that reach for the sky like pennants of freedom

and i'll remember that this too was a battle ground

but stands still

as a memorial to the fallen plain

and i wonder to myself

if that is why we build cities

with their sky piercing towers

if we, in our secret minds, raise them

as sacred grounds to honor

those who lie silently beneath them

(one day perhaps they will raise

for me a city sharp and shining

to cut a small strip out of the horizon

and sing with the voice of a cynic

the old hymns of forgiveness)

that is why i am looking for you 

you know

because i shamed myself in the shadows

speaking out of the small places

and using the little words to create

a pushing hole that like silence

like a cancer grows

and so here in this silent place

i will build for you a city

of needles with their sharp pine scent

lying here watching the sky disappear

i will pile the slick needles high

over our battlefield 

and force my fingers to be still

under the weight of my remorse

i'll lie here waiting

watching for you to come

because you know that this is where 

i will be, and what i will be doing

you know that i was weak

and that i was wrong

i build you a city

because thats what we do

to remember

and to remind us that

life will still go on

sparring gone too far.

let us build a practicefield

you and i together

and i will take the face of the foe

and you of the other

let us with our leaden swords swing

heavily and without grace

learning to bruise before

we dare to break the skin

i am not yours

and you are not mine

but let us spar here

for this coming time

when i will turn to another call

and beat a new pathway

leaving you do the same

free at last and done

with this sand and tent

these blunted blades

the bruises and wounds that we disregard

let us come together

one last time and then again

to batter with our clumsy arms

to do each other harm

not that we care

but rather because we don't

and so we swing with a spirit

cracking the leather armour

dulling our weary eyes

till we without qualm

may strike

with all our swinging strength

driving the point deep

and leaving the sand wet

my friend,

i am sorry.

(boom)

there is a thrumming tension in you

sitting stiff in your joints

making them snap not swing

from one motion to another

it's drawn a tight line across your lips

with just a peek of purple showing

where they begin to bruise

and the thing is, i don't think you know

i don't think you've noticed

the way you clear a space around you

how you chew your words first

and then spit them out

to bounce metallic against the floor

there is a ticking tension in you

it is monday

and he is late.

the origin. the end.

(a teaching tale)

she woke up lonely amidst the songs of spring

and decided that today would be an end

and perhaps a beginning

so she went walking her wild way

she went first to the stream and with her trickling tongue

talking and singing she reminded her

of the clearing of branches, of the cleansing of debris

of the way she helped her to breathe

and walked on carrying her first gift

the handfuls of the slick soft clay

that clung to her fingers in its friendly trusting way

she set it gently to rest in the wooden bowl

she had cleaned and saved for this

and went on walking looking with her quick eyes

for what it is she wanted to see 

she found the old willow by the stream

and whispering to it high in his arms

with the water singing counterpoint to please

she asked for the new green switches

that had the gift of growth in them and the strength 

of the solemn trunk as well

and because she had loved well and told stories often

the tree surrendered to her his slips of wood

she took and laid it by the bowl

carefully in the light to let it drink in the warmth

and with water to quench its thirst

and went to walk again with her careful hands

pushing through the long grass she felt for her treasure

she asked the sweet spring rose

trading cautiously the prick of blood

for the sweet petals that lay soft upon her palm

it took gentleness and it took pain

but the petals came gracefully

as ever a lady gives

and she took them with the same grace and a kiss

the petals she put softly on her white cloth

folded like a cushion or a throne

and went again to wander with her slender feet

slipping through the trees that bent towards her

stopping to span a trunk of the almond tree

and with her laughing fingers

run up and around through the creases in the bark

till with its own shaking joy she gave her back

and tumbled two spinning nuts into her waiting hands

like the few tears that laughter brings

amidst the gasping chaos of the world being right for a moment

the almonds she placed with the rose petals

tucking them in like jewels against their settings

and with that done she waltzes away

singing a small purposeful song that echoed

against the rocks and trees and sky

until the wind came with its screaming melody

and wrapped her up like an old friend

that she dipped in harmony to and spun up in volume

till with a final trill disappeared into the blue again

leaving her with a new song in her head

and her hands cupped tight against each other

carrying the gift the wind gave

she poured the gift into a seaglass bottle

sealing it quick with wax and letting the light

make rainbows of its swirling grace

then sat and let her door swing

in the shadows of dusk

thinking and tracing in the dust on her table

till with a sigh she stands

and shakes loose the rusting drawer

she slides the contents around with her ginger fingers

plucking at last the heavy charm 

and holding it close to her ear letting the tick

beat through her veins

and with reluctant hands placed it on the table

the sun had fully set 

it was time to set to work

bones of willow that will grow

that will bend but not break

skin of clay that is cool

knows the strength of water

and the love of the sun

lips of rose so soft

that may pierce or soothe

as they please

eyes of almond to watch

the world but not

to let too much in

voice of the wind to sing

of freedom and strength

sorrow and joy

this was almost all

and dawn was almost here

but she sat a while

holding the bronze weight in her hands

wetting the edge of her eyes

the magic will end soon enough

and so she took heart

and with one final thrust

placed in beside the young lungs

the old bronze watch

beating its time away

This is the story of my mother

and how she made me

in the spring one day

out of all the strength she had

i tell you because

the springs are winding down

the hand spins to stop

and i want you to remember

in the midst of all of these

the greatest gift she gave me

was time

oh daughter mine

take your time

with your streetlight spine

and your hair of soft wires

your skin of silicon

and your heart

your heart of flashing lights

a clock your own

i gave you what strength i had

and now you are grown

and i am gone...

My early sister

i wonder what they did to her

my early sister

when they found her by the riverside

with her broad mouth

(that red mouth that pulled the hungry eyes

of the brown clothed men for its brave colour

and brought the ice into the women's eyes

for its daring bravery.)

stretched wide in concentration 

and swelling with a whistling laughter

while she watched with her bright eyes

and her hair loose and dancing in the wind

it was the women who found her

of course,

coming over the hill in their tight groups

with their heavy loads on their wide hips

and their quick sharp tongues keeping pace

with their eyes

they saw her with her willowy fingers

that though they worked as hard as theirs

stayed smooth and slender

they saw her coaxing with her lush lips

tweaking the twig as it twisted in her hand

they saw her drag it through the water

and with her careful breath send it swelling

into something....other

(later one of the young girls

who remembered whispered to her playmate

that it was beautiful, this strange thing

and that it looked like rainbows all wrapped

against each other before the disappeared)

the women sniffed and whispered and gasped

sent one of the children back for the men

and then descended

their years of packed-dirt envy sharpening their tongues

their hands outstretched like the claws they always told each other

(in whispers)that she had in the dark of moon

grabbed tight of her with their cutting hands

and dragged her screeching

(oh the pride of the lionesses bringing their prey

their foe to ground

one wonders what the doe ever did to them)

they told the waiting men, out of breath and bemused,

in no uncertain terms what the crime and punishment would be

acting in one voice as judge and jury

striking while the men gathered confused

reminding them of their places, of their wives

and, in the face of their wrath, their miserable lives

i wonder what they did to my early sister

with their faces so twisted and bitter

standing there beneath the spreading oak

but the rest of the story is lost in smoke

they called her a witch

for her crime

of mixing her water and soap

and making a picture of hope

Men and their Modern Medicine.

it began with my throat

of course

with all the small shoving sounds

that i stranded there

on their way from my lungs 

pumped up by my frantic heart

but stopped severely by my lips

white with the effort and forced back

to sit sullenly muttering amongst the cords

slowly it swelled 

till it was painful to the touch 

and only small gasps of air could push through

like women in business suits at elementary schools

they have a reason for being there (they wouldn't be there otherwise)

but no one appreciates their shoving heels

then my skin became hot to the touch

sending small sticky strands of sweat 

down my face and through my hair

leaving me looking like those

whom Fate has not yet decided as to their survival

but leaves waiting in the balance

the doctor came in

and diagnosed strep throat

but then he was a man

and knows nothing of love.

Fight for it.

the gloves are on

and you'd never know

this soft leather, the white clinging to my fingers

laughs at the irony of the phrase

as you with your teasing eyes

pull at each tip

slip down my wrist to toy with my

mother-of-pearl buttons 

push and pull and then slide them loose

leaving my veins open to air

and so you follow them

with your long finger 

tracing them up and under the fabric

stretching it to accommodate you 

you slide out again to tweak the white edges

twisting gently again and again

with that predatory smile softened by the slight dent in your cheek

until with a solemn  sound they surrender

leaving me bare to the sight of you

when you, saying nothing, walked away

i had just one thing to say

hey baby,

the gloves are off.