Week of January 11th

Weekday Morning

My children, a thick
layer of insulation
that keep the old pants
of concentration
from fitting.
And although I know
I've outgrown them,
still I find myself
in the faint rose
rising light of
January Monday
trying to drag 'em
up over my thighs.
The three-year-old, in his
chattering isolation,
pushes the pants away
and here i am.


Snowstorm in the Village

no wall that is opaque
could be so effective a barrier.
favorite diversions far out of reach,
an absence, a void in the day,
the box cycles its colors but fills nothing . . .
remember when televisions had antennae
and between stations
echoed this strange January?



O For August

O for August, for full-on green and gold.
We must tread careful in this dead ditch of the year.
Snow may turn our thoughts to brittle glass.
The dead grasp of bare trees hold us just far
Enough apart so we never really make contact
You are as unknowable and common as Mr. Sagans
Salt.

At least in August you are open as leaves,
Aired out, blood flowin', painted in warm hues,
And our chains are hidden.



I'll Make it Right, Kiddo

Look at you in your little denim jacket,
Your hair mussed and starting to curl
No sign of the tiny monkey that once
Clung to my breast as the stuff of life.
Your mouth is ever talking talking
And I have to remind myself that
These are the days of our new foundation
Every day trying to right the wrongs
Show you I mean it. What does a
three year old know of atonement?
Perhaps enough to know I'm trying.



Buttons

Pushed the right buttons again, gods damn you,
and now we blare, klaxon alarms, lips moving
but our voices too loud to listen properly.
This be the pin, this be the code, this be the Truth.


Costume Jewelery

You've no faith in my words anymore
I could carve it in stone and still you'd disbelieve
Doubting every strike of hammer on chisel.
If I etched it in the twin panes of your windows
You would call it desirous hallucination on your part
Even as I painstakingly scrape the final syllables in.
Though every word I've given has been
A clear,crystalline drop of Truth
Your flawed jeweler loupe has shown you
nonexistent inclusions that show me
Forever as paste.



We Make the Paddleboat Go.

Sorry I'm such a poor life raft my love,
I have issues with flotation, too.
Together we may as well be a waterwheel,
Holding eachother's feet.
One pushes themself under
So the other breaks the surface
And with a gasp and a splash
Dive back under and around
To give the needed push
Back up and into
the light.



Follow

Once upon a time,
back in the day
(as they say,)
I followed you
in green silence.
When the earth moved
tilted to 45 degrees
I dug in, choked back
the angry tears,
set my eyes on
your back and
PUSHED THROUGH.
I knew if I lost you,
If I gave in to the weakness,
You would not stop
Or wait for me.



You Shaken, Me Stirred

You were shaken, so how is it
That some ancient dam bursts in me?
It was all I could do to grab something
To give me some buoyancy when
This flood came crashing through my
Damnably silent valley. A crest 30
Feet above my head as I trembled
In its shadow clutching this tiny
Thing become a life raft and you
Know what a poor swimmer I am.
So now I tread water, eyes and nose
over the surface, watching for
Eddies and whirlpools that may pull me down.



Piles of Pebbles

A pipe in the morning to soothe me
Your mouth pours unbroken streams in
My aural canal. Ten thousand tiny
Stones, when piled high enough, can
blot out the sun. When you speak, you
tell me about the four thousand and twenty sixth.
The shape of it, and color and texture,
And how you placed it just so, what
it is supported by and what it supports.