Afternoon Poems

A Maze

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Once I’ve driven those day
dreams of a dead man
(almost my lover) off the dirt
road, I lay down
on cool stone
to sleep. And dream of you,

a living man
(never my lover). I don’t control
stories that get told
while I sleep. Lyric
never narrative. A complicated card
game I couldn’t play,

I give up and walk down bent
corridors with you
looking back
at me. Is it still there—
that precious
metal band? I can’t see

your left hand.
Into the labyrinth—
a kiss. I wake
to imprint this sweet
consolation prize
on the day.

Without Words

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Ready? I couldn’t be
more so. Bronze and
hollowed out. A representation

of a shell to protect
living flesh from otherworldly
showers, I live

in imagination. My darkened
green sleeves peering
through heavy

snow—a figment of a woman’s
realized. Disembodied
lips and an armless mannequin

pillar dance with me
on marble over grass. Who’s
watching? Everyone—and
I am cleansed.

(Inspired by Judith Shea’s sculpture of the same name)

Up Here

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A sculpture outside
another restaurant
that didn’t make it

celebrates a robust
dance in bronze. Limbs
will support a partner’s need

to cry beneath clouds.
Will they break

now or tonight
when reminiscing has begun?
Whose weather will make

the better spin? Some cities
may tie.

The Summer after Seventh Grade on Glengary Road

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I remember twins
before the mall came tumbling down
(where no library would nest
in its debris). They swam

in a pool
attached to a house
my father bought
before they tore down

the family. It was broken
by the time those boys jumped
off the diving board
into lukewarm June

water. And the poodle
had already eaten the kits
nesting in a rabbit
burrow by the wooden fence.

Down Cellar Stairs

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Someone has written
the inconvenience of death
in my handwriting
on the fence. Accidental
rhyme brings me closer
to a private hilarity. To laugh
at my own
impatience jumbled
in a dryer
with my hesitation—
would I be any
more ready?

Ashes East

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She can catch the train
at the next station down

the line. Still sit forward
and watch future

vistas become now.
A national cemetery with endless

rows of evenly spaced
headstones. The mother’s there

and the father she never knew. But
not the son.

No Scaffold

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A man on stilts
is busy doing his best
to convince passersby
to rethink the glass

wall. I walk
by a sign for free
smells—wonder how

many grams of fat
per sniff. I’m going to stand
taller when I inhale
that deeply.

Islands of Virgin Woods

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A stack of canoes banked
on a rack beside the canal
between two lakes is a chain

gang of my former lovers. Release
the bungee cord fasteners, free
one from the group to use. Glide

through flat water
on a sunny afternoon till it turns
into black sky and heavy rain. Plunge

the paddles, pick up the pace.
If I don’t return
this one, I won’t get another

one to damage—or
be damaged by.

Don’t Touch the Stagecoach

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If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.

Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out

tale to find
the way out.