Poetry
Today, I sat by the river bank
and sunk my toes into the silt.
I docked with the Earth,
but could not find you on it.
You are no-where,
in daylight invisible,
but the stars will come out
in a few hours and I will
search among them for you.
Twinkle, twinkle.
You are the only star I want
from these dark heavens.
In every city,
there are empty lots
that dream of being gardens.
Some of them
want wildflowers to grow
just because they want someone
to call them beautiful,
and some of them
want to grow peppers,
and bright tomatoes,
and long orange carrots
because the thing
they want most
is to nourish someone,
and some of them
just want water and light
and don’t care what grows,
scraggly weeds or tangled brush,
anything at all,
so long as someone
is there to care for them.
You followed your heart.
There’s nothing I can say
against that. You followed
your heart back to the shark
pit, like it was a hook in the
side of your lip and it hurt
too much to not go along,
even if you’d be snapped up
in the end. The water’s
already got the scent of
you in it, and I don’t want
to watch the feeding.
You followed your heart
into the boxing ring, only
the gloves are off and no
one’s cheering for you.
We’re just stunned,
mouths hung open,
drying in wonder,
wincing in anticipation
for the bruises his fists
give like gifts. They’ll come.
They’ll come.
You followed your heart.
I just wish mine had not
toddled after you.
I know you must wake
and go to work,
but do this for me:
go quietly as you can.
I am selfish and
I do not want to be
disturbed by your leaving.
Dress with the lights off,
underwear and blouse,
the black skirt you laid
on the dresser last night.
Your heels are beside
the door, your earrings
in the bowl with your
car keys. Go quietly.
I am selfish and
know I’ll wake up
and find you gone.
I would like to put
that off as long as
possible.
Your mouth is a gift
box I’d like to fill with
words: poetic
libations poured
from (the cup of) my
self, poured til you brim
with them, til
they seep into your seams,
til they seep into your dreams,
til I leave your lace edges
dripping.
I’ll rush to seal them in
before they gush out,
seal you with ribbon
before they spill
from the spout
of your rosy red lips,
of your come-to-bed lips,
sealed with a bow
on your kiss-me-now lips.
Things your father gave you:
Eyesockets. The bones that frame
bottles full of the grey white ocean.
Black hair. Tangles like kelp.
The shape your foot forms in
the wet sand beside conch shells.
A sand dollar, a fish hook.
A memory like fog: cold salt,
wet hair on a man’s long legs,
white teeth in a black kelp beard.
A nightmare: a ship on the horizon
that never comes to harbor,
even during storms.
Especially during storms.
She asks me, “Is there any advice
you can give to someone who
wants to have a poet’s heart?”
First, find the poet of your choice.
Subdue them. There are many ways:
drugs, perhaps, although be sure
to choose ones that won’t damage
the various atria and ventricles
of your poet’s heart. If drugs are
too illicit for your tastes, consider
seduction, an abundance of alcohol,
or what my father would call
ball-peen anesthetic.
Next, you will need a cardiologist
with a questionable ethical character
and a mostly-clean operating room:
I hear you can get a great deal
on them in Brazil or maybe Colombia.
And of course, you will need a
very sharp scalpel and a jar.
You will need a large glass jar
to keep your poet’s heart in,
so you can pull it off the shelf
from time to time and admire it.
Incidentally, you might give some
thought to what you will do with your poet
when you have claimed his or her heart:
a heartless poet tends to sour
and really isn’t good for anything at all.
It runs from neck nape
to tailbone –
a ripple, a tremor,
a shudder and shake –
and your kiss
the pebble that skips,
the faultline that slips,
oh my oh my
your kiss
the zip and the break.
You run right through me
every time
every time.
You were beautiful,
and I spent hours trying to decide
how to dispose of your picture.
I could have burned it.
I could have thrown it in the trash,
or left it in a gutter full of old rain.
I could have chopped it into confetti
and thrown it off the tallest building
in town, but none of those seemed
a fitting way to end you.
I didn’t hate you enough for fire.
You didn’t belong in the landfill
or a grimy wet sluice, and
if I’d tossed you into the sky,
I’d just have to see the pieces of you
when I came back down.
So I bought a packet of flower seeds.
Himalayan blue poppies,
and I crumpled your picture
and tucked the seeds inside
and I buried you.
In an empty lot beside a thrift store,
I buried you,
thinking you weren’t so beautiful after all,
but with a bit of rain and sunshine
you might be.
I am not very good
at telling you how I feel.
I write you love letters
in the sand of the shore
but the sea keeps
washing them away
before I can sign them
with I love you I love you
please stay with me.
I write you love letters
every day I tie them
to the legs of carrier birds
but they go in circles
they get lost in transit
they get blown off course
and never make their way
to you.
I write you love letters
in languages
you don’t know how to read.
I write you love letters
you don’t read.