Frigid

pink moon 2

On this cold planet
exiled for loving too much
and too hard
presided by a moon
icy and unfeeling

I remember love
the thoughts
of warm hands
and
the heart of a champion

I recall a day
when I was made queen
of one man, one seeker
and it reminds me not to let go
of the tether

To be carried
through frigid space
to be sentenced
for always–

Come to me again
my love
with that fire
so red and angry–
it would send that moon

splashing

Rain dance

Can you hear me?
My voice is quieter
after the storm
the windows shut tight
to keep the rain out

When the blue gets in
in spite of my weather-proof house
I pull up the memory, of
a day when the rain felt good

We splashed and danced
and thumbed our noses
at the soaking wet
knowing we could take the rain

wearing our
falling-in-love-again macs

Date night

I reach for the vents
pointing the a/c at my thighs
and my neck
turning on the Stones
and edit this moment
to feel like a good time
a really, really good time
baby

you pop French fries
into my mouth
going 75 in the middle lane
dodging semi’s
and I am giggling
at your bad jokes
my hand at six o’clock
on the wheel

Kinder

I am in the kitchen writing out my life
Chopin is in the living room, urging me not to quit
the sadness (over breakfast) and a hurried car ride
heavy and burdensome

I don’t care (I said) because of course
I care more than life itself
but if I have to give up my life
in the process (I don’t care)

Then what is the purpose of living
this strangling, overarching plot
that no one would buy
is dancing in my last nerve

So it is like this. That you will
treat me kindly in the future
and I will continue to write my life
both wonderful and terrible, and
this is the contract I bid you sign

Jesus, you are not a building

A good Friday psalm

You are not a building.
You are not songs, millennia old.
I am yours and you are mine
and that is my joy

Please don’t let me take that for granted
Or stop thanking you–
for you are not a building
or angry mobs, but you are there

You are not this hate-filled debate
but you see it–hear it–and know
what is true–not this circular argument
that breaks our hearts

You are not my race.
You are not my gender.
You are not my house.
But my body is your temple

I beg you to open my eyes
so I see all of the truth.
Is it enough to know that I need you?
I know myself

I am no better or worse
than anyone on my screen, or
on my street, or in that building
that you are not

in a stew

 

will you make me stop
thinking about you
when sleep finally arrives–
waiting out all of our seasons
for the sake
of bitter herbs in the soup

the bitter
with the sweet and savoury
is always there
not this one-dimensional
two-headed
Frankenstein monster
you imagine us to be

yesterday was a game
will you take a chance
and paint your dreams
on a griddle of hotcakes
with syrupy regret
that makes you sick
and leaves you wet

shouldn’t keep
hunting for the hunter
running after our destroyer
one step ahead
and two back
for no good reason
except that it feels right
to stroke the dark places

if no one sees
who does it hurt
when we re-configure our
boundaries
some given
others drawn
with the same old piece of chalk
nearly used up

Communion

august roses.jpg

 

In the hot car
that damned a/c we never fixed
I pull my hair back and twist it
impaling the knot with chopsticks
wiping my forehead with a napkin
The heat is oppressive

And the tension
of what distracted me in church
from hearing the gospel
hangs between us
anger. frustration. pain.
all hovering in the void

Starting the car
I pull my dress up over my knees
to be cooler
and catch his brief glance
sure he’s a breast man himself
but will still admire my legs
blatantly

The mood lightens at this
and pulling out of the parking lot
I turn the car towards home
thinking, yeah
we’ll stay together, but
don’t you dare call it fate

you do the math

dancing in my living room
to George and Elton
(does it really happen
if no-one sees it? like
that proverbial
tree in the forest)

he says I never go out
(though I could tell him stories
about 1985, when I lived ten years
in 12 months)
and I dance and dance

my head full of 1990
(wonderwall, hammer, hit me baby)
one more time–-let’s dance as one
I’ll lead this time–you follow–-
if you still have that notion
that 1+1= 1
and 2+1= no-end-of-joy

perhaps we will find
a new kind of joy
wrap’d in understanding, and
lessons learned (old flames–-
new rites of passage)
let’s not forget, and dance to now
(rhianna, radiohead, foo fighters
+ the beatles,
the eagles, and 21 pilots,
shaken and stirred)

once I thought it was crucial
to fly without a net
but I believe
the real trick
is to not let go

Didn’t we die, bit by bit

each night
something new
tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
discontent
covering everything

I walked around
the disease
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
as I searched
for that four-leaf clover
since ten
(holy shit)
that seems foolhardy

Then wasn’t it sweet
following that wretched meal
with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step upon rose petals
toward silk bliss
the decay forgotten
for hours