Monday

I stare into my coffee as if it will give me answers, a swirl of black coffee foaming from the press. It isn’t talking. Maybe some tea.

I’ve been here before–a cold, hard rock and a lost place. I am not a child. I sit paralyzed. The door annoys and the phone is an intrusion.

There is one thing that is tolerable. And as a child, music could soothe me. But which? Blues is too sad. Would jazz make me bitch-slap someone?

Ah, Brahms,my old friend.I smile and squeeze his hand. No,It must be Ludwig. Do understand. It is not you, it’s me. There is so much at stake.

Continue reading “Monday”

Advertisements

Cookbook, page 29

Breakfast was unsatisfying
The sunshine made too much of it all
The rain is coming, not nearly soon enough
The birds complained about the bread crusts
(breakfast, sun, rain, birds, bread)
Recipe for a morning.

The night was interrupted twice
The stars made 2 a.m. worth it
I found myself dozing, pen in hand
The rain (still) has not arrived, and I wait
The birds sang me awake so I could write to you
(night, stars, pen, rain, birdsong)
Recipe for joy.

the heat came quick
just after the rain
forming clouds before my eyes
hovering there

my fingers play in them
like a child
making new shapes
every time his face appears

here, kitty kitty

sitting in this bar
fifty miles from home
(that does not feel like home)
blue Persian cat making love to my legs
nearly obscene how he rubs against them

the beer, head-splitting cold, and
I drink deep
then reach down to scratch his head
against my knee

I came here to forget
to disappear into a dim crowd
his amorous
attention to my shins
making my eyes misty

a lick of pretzel salt
from my finger with a rough tongue
throat vibrating
against my palm
when he purrs

Sometimes I feel like an orphan

now that Mama has left and Daddy
don’t love me no more
sometimes I feel like an orphan
in the middle of a raging storm

now that I play at grown-up
playing house as if I know what to do
since Daddy stopped loving me at four
since I draw fear from the belt and the door

sometimes I feel like I am orphaned
when he is there and she is no more
but I know you watch me–and I know you care
and when you listen-I am an orphan
(no more)

grievances

self-pity
forgive me
isn’t pretty
crying with ruby-
throated sparrows
roof-top
when he did not
see me
he’s a
one-strike-
you’re-out man

all my words
any accolades
mere dust
when I see his
eyes go blank
knowing he
does not hear me
(desperately braiding
a tether to reach)

I was not her
I don’t have
delicate hands
(they have fought,
caressed,
held up babies
and made love
like a warrior)
my hands are not small

through another window
someone moans
complains
my mind still wedged
in fascination
(her voice
fading
to a hum)
smiling
as fairies come