last night
i let the dog out
and the moon was singing
down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody
polaris twinkled
guiding each of us
home
.
.
.
i let the dog out
and the moon was singing
down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody
polaris twinkled
guiding each of us
home
.
.
.
a giggle escapes
through the space
between
clouds
blue sky
bleeding
promises
and you
in the corner
throwing choices
at cracked white walls
always looking
for the one
that will stick
i hear an ocean of epitaph
singeing torn curtains
a whale on the roof
leaking tears
into gutter
grey gull
limping flight
through white waves of sand
a bead of laughter
rises up
beneath the surface
breaking skin and
creeping starfish
that will die
of too much sun
and the ball
rolling back in my
direction
comes to rest
at the edge
of false fealty
cliff hanger hopeful
and harpy sated
siren
marking grid
on fields of silent
glittered gauze
i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation
all scrabble fingered
and blister burned
pasting love and scraps of
survival
over lies and offered
fiction
all the while pretty singing
this is the light
we eat by
this is the light
i worship at night
this is the light
i fly to
burning wing and hemmed
betrayals
my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night
.
.
.
digging deep through poisoned soil
seeking hope or refuge or both
and the flower opens
and we think pretty
but it’s all
just a matter
of survival
“this is not really happening—
you bet your life it is”*
hang your head
nod hello
run
stand your ground
i can’t remember
i can’t remember
your name
is
silence
or alice
or delilah
i can’t remember
and all you ever wanted
was bloom
.
.
.
the way a tree holds up time for everyone to see
.
i ran on the side of the road to a place i can’t get back to
a stranger asked if i was lost
and i wondered how he knew
.
peace is always an illusion when the default is chaos
.
the red-winged blackbird wears his heart on his sleeve
and i follow his lead
.
regret is the stepping stone of forward
.
crooked is the path that gets you there
.
.
.
.
at the root of existence
we choose to grow and then
wither
bend and bow
curve and carry
reach and
reminisce
.
at night the bloom closes
protecting center from darkness
and fragile from star
.
days run together
with the laughter of sympathy
.
what we’ve learned
earned
burned
is eternally
shed
.
.
.
.
in a world of too much and
never enough
and tiny lives
bleeding hearts
doors that open
before they close
window views and
widow’s walks
and the quiet violence
of bloom
.
.
.
on the quiet colors
of a cold grey sad day morning
.
the scent of winter
crisp and silent
creeping up behind me
.
.
.
.
.
i search for beauty in the bones of every skeleton
architecture is the art of building frames
i thought i was a writer once, then i became human
the sky is a cage built for starlings
i am the ghost of my grandmother, re-contrived
.
all the leaves have fallen now and the wind has moved on
we stand naked in the weak winter sunshine,
refusing the invitation to bend
.
.
.
.
Prepared to run, poised for flight, yet standing my ground. The sky grows dark with words that flit by with the silence of bats, words used, expelled, offered in place of all I cannot give. The earth rumbles with those I’ve yet to speak.
I want to remember tomorrow before it happens and dream of yesterday’s chance. I want to be the bird that lands last. I want to sing with the abandon of loss.
Instead, I reach my arms high and offer sanctuary, spreading branches like wings and roots like scrabbling claw feet. I am sharp-edged and hollow-toed. I am filled with echoes.
I dreamt of you again last night, fooled myself into seeing you again, but even my dream felt the need to remind me that you are gone. And even in sleep I wondered if this is the way it will always be, and I spent the rest of the night wandering lost from room to room in a house built from memories of places I’ve never been.
We were there, together, just for a moment. Before I remembered.
Mostly, I’ve come to understand that the questions will never be answered. Mostly, I’ve come to embrace the lack of knowing. I am content to wander through this field of grass and bird and flailing branch. The wind is a challenge to stay upright, my map has sailed high into clouds of disdain.
.
And we laughed again
at free falling bottles and
broken stars. We laughed.
.
.
.
.