Your death is an angry wasp –
a hungry bear –
desire turned on it’s side,
I always wanted to tell you
something meaningful like god.
As if words could summon a heart –
a tiny rainbow of hope –
taking its cue
from some other side.
You were a Diva who understood dying
well before you were sick.
I was a poet
who traded my name for numbers
and lost my death
in a life half-lived.
Both of us always running
to beat our own lovely fall.
Your falling was a quiet farewell –
no more talking our way out of this one.
I said good-bye like a broken drum
while you commanded that heart to stop.
It seems we are both still trying to speak –
Me – a mad pen, tired bones, an ache –
You, a deplorable sunrise
We arrive sleepy and bent -
a crumpled wad of desire
for something new.
These wet hot streets -
a vistors reckoning -
But that is what you carried here
my dear -
packed neatly in your bags -
folded, creased, alert.
I tried to find the thing
that made London her own.
But, belonging to everyone
and spread so densely
through street upon alley upon court
she's a union of nations at once -
scurrying about in search.
The homeless prefer, it seems,
to sleep in broad daylight
beside a riot of words.
There are no shoes,
a tired beard,
an altar of water bottles
left at his feet.
I thought about quitting marriage
when I couldn't summon joy -
as if London should ring that old bell
back into awakening.
But it was dinner time again -
and every other door
an open mouth for feeding.
So we dine
so we sleep
so we rise once more
and when you say good-bye
i love you at last.
grief is a quiet color - gardenia who lost her scent - a reckoning. grief is without an hour - has no second hand - the face on a clock, gone. there is only space and a vacuous ledge to lean into. my fear - not of falling but that i will jump. when i am a whirling dervish of doing i can only be one way - productive. my heart sits on the sidelines cheering us both on but would never dare to interrupt. i come here to be reminded of the color: magenta fuscia aqua marine blue a light yellow blouse carrying bones. flesh and heart held up in the mix. i come here to celebrate even though i do not recall the occasion until I am here and sometimes not at all. i sit. i admit. i pull away from the ledge enough to breath but not so far as to pretend it isn't there. my grief is a yellow tricycle - empty basket - under a timber of sun. my grief is a magical final good-bye i was not there to make - with all the busyness of being busy. the doing of regret. they say that is a stage of grieving - as if recognizing its components could allow for some dismantling - but it is intact, i say. as certain as a two minute timer. this is how we are given a reprieve. maybe even forgiveness. the landmark for time.
when i reached for the moon
and fell out of the crib
i was moved to lower ground.
when i fell out of the tree
and broke my ankle
i said who likes tree climbing anyway.
when i wrote a poem
and you said it moved you
i thought i could write forever.
then forever became a mighty long time
and somewhere i decided
it was maybe better not to reach.
or to climb
or to write.
because what if with falling
i could no longer move you?
and what if not doing means not being?
and what if the climber leaps?
i jumped off the bridge last night
in my heart
and now some twelve hours later
i still haven't hit the bottom -
the immeasurable depth of being,
to slam up against
with something so simple
so i wait.
think about the crawling out -
the accent -
the way back up
to where things are indeed
even inside the darkness.
even with it.
the frailty of being human -
i know the clouds are grey for a reason -
that there will be more rain
but also i know, from it
will come new growth
and this is where i rest
against the walls of a weary heart -
pull myself back out
and up -
where i can dare again
i used to think
there was so much beauty in the tragic -
or such tragedy to be found in beauty -
and now i realize
is just a stepping stone
or away from
Off highway 5 at Livermore today,
a lady held a sign on the overpass
"I bet you can't hit me with a quarter."
I gave her twenty dollars and pleaded
please don't let anyone hit you with a quarter.
she spilled a broken tooth smile
and crossed herself
and i could see in her eyes
exactly who she was when she was eight.
my husband asked don't i ever worry
people will just use my alms for drugs?
no, i told him,
i only care that for a second
they have hope -
that they feel worthy of something.
i have heard a lot of addicts speak
about a "moment of clarity" -
and never did the story take place
while meditating in some cave somewhere.
That twenty dollars may not have changed her life
but she changed mine.
tonight i am listening to a cello concerto
on a vintage garage sale turntable
i scored for twenty bucks.
last night - a law and order re-run.
tomorrow - maybe cake.
it's easier not to be perfect.
people think if you are happy all the time
there must be some lack of depth -
as if only misery or worry or grief
could be measured against the truth.
i think happy is an unmeditated reprieve.
a joy for something not forgot.
a joy for escaping the narrows.
i see how we wear our hearts on our faces.
"mine is broken" or "love me"
and then how we do all these other things
to pretend they are saying something else.