coming home

I imagine you on the flat two-lane roads,
coming on ahead of the weather.

Behind you, a blizzard falls out of the northwest,
the kind that nearly froze Pa Ingalls as he stumbled blindly
past the barn, past the corner of the house,
into open prairie.
Snow drifts against your mother's headstone,
softens the print your left hand made
in the frozen earth at the base.

I hear you sang today, the Lord's Prayer,
to a roomful of mourners;
and in between the lines Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
they could hear the dripping from the eaves.
A warm wind; the lull of comfort
that softens the earth a little before the storm.

If I'm going to crack
in the middle of a service, it's usually
right there -
Thy kingdom come
(and the sharpness of longing)
Thy will be done
(and the joyful fruitlessness
of submission)
On earth as it is
in Heaven.
You can't sing if you're crying,
you can only whisper your prayers.

Dry pavement under your wheels,
thin shoulders squared to
what's behind you.
The whiteness comes on, obliterating stars,
and I hope your clear blue voice
rests now; on the earth
where it welcomed you,
that your tears had their turn.

Yellow cake

You hate yellow cake.
Yielding and meek.

you could level a man twice my weight,
you like to say,
and I want to watch.
you are twice me.
angry all the time and sad, all the time
and loving, loudly loving, all the time.
reported aggressive, flagrant, persistent:
your martial arts.

You've never raised your voice to me.
In all the years
and only once have told me to shut. up.
(Some kind of record.)
I know you've been
a punching bag, more than once.
And a cushion, in your largeness, for the weight
of men, and you've had better sex than I
by far, I fear.

But never yellow cake. Never mild,
though your hair and skin would argue.

You're yellow as a steamshovel,
a loudmouthedbitch and
pushy blonde,
with creamy icing skin and
round blue candy eyes.

double negative

I can't not love you.
I can't not want you,
late at night before I fall asleep,
and first thing waking, still warm
No matter how I pray;
because you are my calm
as well as my conflict.
I cannot make myself pick up the hammer
and assault the final barrier between us
because that would change
everything
And not for the better.
It takes the double-negative
of not-not-loving,
not-not-wanting,
and for good measure
not telling you the truth
To balance out my endless passion
for what does not
does not
belong to me.

night listening

this hour a sweep of the brush in ink
black, and the wind-tunnel of forced air rush
the sound, and all in their beds
and I awake as usual, just unconscious of my limbs
in a hard chair, drink in

not-silence, defined by warm walls here
and the cold outside, the distance north and south
maps of the lives, you in your bed too under
colorless sheets,
unknown habits and positions, also silent

the symphony of sleepers' breath
fogs the imagined night air, behind the white noise
of the furnace running; yours too,
hushed, halted, gasped or rattling the glass with basso
snores, if I could hear them all in wave-like rhythm
on my shores
if all that presence were a blanket wrapped around me
then perhaps I'd lose myself,
and find my part

of all the exhausted topics, emptied of their worth

of all the states of being to escape the grasp of verse

of all the ways our souls must bend, or break the bones of faith

this, the wound accepted open-armed

this the grace that missed the mark, and harmed

this the shame

by no one name

is known



of all the songs a man may wake to moan



yours the name I pray and cry

yours the door I'm waiting by

mine the sin that wastes its breath

mine the verse done half to death

last night I looked up from my book
at the clock, startled, and I responded Yes
I miss you too.
without even knowing why,
as if the phone had rung unexpectedly
at 11:45pm.

when someone thinks hard about you
from a distance
it is a thing you cannot see or look away from;
it the stillness after a shout, and the image fading -
the empty room becomes instead
the space between you and
the one who has spoken your name
to themselves
on the cold night air, somewhere
someone searching
for the words
they would use if
they thought you were listening,
at 11:45pm.

what good is it?
to hear the shout, to speak
as if spoken to;
sitting alone, with a book
I wonder
not for the first time.
This comes and goes, this ear
like a dog's ear, tuned to the miles
between one breath and
the next.

Billy

a man with grey eyes and long grey hair
wears an earring I'd swear was made of pop-top rings; Billy
blesses me, as I bag his groceries - "You look good, kid."
he's the scarecrow, and the tin man too
loose-limbed, corroded joints, long necked and bony.
he smells of dirty linens, walks like he sleeps on the floor -
he's too long in the spine for anything short of
a queen. And he may well know the needle, or the bottle,
or both; may well dream dreams that are greasy and dark.

But his eyes are full of light and air; full of seas he may have seen.
He says he comes from Houston - big storms there recently. For sure
he's got some miles on him, and some distance in him.
Straight as a rail, he walks all the way home
with his one-bag-full
"Yes, ma'am" he says with a wink, when I say
Take care.