Passion and politics

Raindrops are lost to clods of dirt
stirred by your footfall
you–-so much taller than I–
I thought they were your tears
falling over my head;

I wish you had been sober
when you said you wanted me
I wish
you had been kinder
when you got sober;

You voted badly
and I knew it
you hammered me with your politics
while you didn’t know shit
about foreign policy;

You said you hated the Beatles
but you still could have stayed–
until you smashed
my ABBA record, and it was I
walking out;

I miss you staring into my eyes
’til I had to look down–
I miss staring at your lap
’til you blushed;

It is raining again
beating against
the clods of dirt
stirred up by your footfall
I still listen for

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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.

All our mistrals (mistrials)

I reveled in storms
then
standing in the yard
daring the lightning
laughing
wet hair hanging
like a robe

She was always afraid
of storms, something
I could give back
talking through
every burst
on the touch-tone
telephone

And in 1996
when the tornadoes came
and the tree fell
inches from mortality
we laughed–
I had coffee, cold
with the lights out
she had tea

and we laughed

Precious

She cried during Star Wars
and he laughed at her
which made her cry more
turning to lay her cheek
against the cool glass
raindrops on the window
like diamonds

‘Isn’t it precious,’ she thought
lighting a cigarette
and hearing him cough
from across the room
but he’d never tell her to stop
crazy about her grumpy moods
in love with how she exhaled

“Maybe we should get away,” he said
getting up and walking over
kneeling at her feet, and
wrapping his arms about her legs
hearing her reply how she liked
things the way they were, and
feeling her fingers in his hair

 

I have
disappointed you

all the brilliant colours
in the rain
run off
to reveal doldrums
I have tried to be rid of
for decades

give me a chance
maybe

it takes longer than you
counted on
but being here
that is, as they say
possession
is nine-tenths of some law
that could apply to us

because I am still here
and still yours

Raining for days

Are we fools–-
The rain falls and we avoid it
afraid to shine
in the middle of puddles
to be struck soaking clean
in May
still trying to get it up–
that umbrella
we are better off without

Are we off our heads–-
when we walk in opposite directions
despite the signs in front of us
mile after mile
not to mention the one
on which I smacked my head
and all those words
you knitted together
through the winter

Are we finished–-
the rain falls over us
where I tied you to the park bench
a gift so that just once
you could see inside my head
while I dance in the rain
tell me, when I untie your wrists
and your ankles, will you run–-
or will you be dancing with me
when the morning comes