Let it Lay

Can I say “I love you”
not a call to action
but let it lay there
like snow
on the Himalayas
like a beach towel
over warm dunes
like Grandma’s hand
at the small of my back

that big
and just that small?


(2/15/11)
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that

that

all  that  which might be spoken

in prounouns and adjectives like year old candles which have lost all their scent

sitting wickless and anemic…a tomb of dead spiders.

Melt the sheets.

Let it rain fire from our hair.

All  that  branding our skin in complex touch.

Wilting, we sleep soundly.

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Ugly

I held my ugliness in for a long time.

It roiled and foamed acid

until there was no stopping the hole from which it leaked.

So I loosed it,

only to find it was not the hideous creature I had imaged.

It was human.

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Memory of The Moon

Does a wolf recall the date of it's birth? Is there memory, or perhaps a scent it once new from being within a mother, that it hunts infinitely? The Moon recalls. The Moon...so in tune with the waxing and waning of it's own come and go, keeps track of all it surveys, having shone so often on birth and death. There is a record, etched with a fossilized stylus in craters and stones , and the record is grand. The memory of the Moon is long, and kind, forgiving, and complicit in the earth's forgetting the pain of birth, so that yearly, it yearns again for Spring. And so the Moon holds our unbalanced history...a rose colored collection of our beauty, the moments we got it right, the days we gave in equal measure to our gain, and our effort...the intent of our effort especially cradled with a tender glow. The rest, the sometimes painful, scared, humbled rest, is cast like fast balls within strike zone of the sun and returned via "SMACK" on the sweet spot. The cover flys back to incineration while the core sails across the sky. And there, caught readily in the glove of the Moon, is our essence...the scent we once knew from being within a mother. Safe. Warm. Nurtured. Loved. It is no wonder a wolf howls at the Moon! The Moon is kind, and it's memory is very long.
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Guilt

I tried to chip away at it
only to dent my spoon
and flinch your eyes
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Mirror

Your disgust
was such a mirror
and in it
I hung ashamed skin
over disagreeing bones



(1/5/11)