It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
Day Poems
Massage Before or After Hours
She’s asking
for it. Live a life
without knives
or cars. Crossing
a street, she’s asking for it
to be safe
for this one between
day. A forgotten anniversary
smashes against one
yet to be named. The sound
it makes
soothes. She remembers
Dark Shadows.
Trailing Arbutus
Return to sender
flowers with no vase. The best
intentions need little
water to survive. A bouquet
of regrets left
on the stoop. It’s time to give
these stems away.
Haptic—Or Don’t Chase the Bus
When he says he wants
to take you
for granted, don’t wait
to take off.
Cinco de Mayo festivals
don’t always fall
on the 5th. When they do,
it’s time to take
our names seriously—or
at least find
an urban maypole
dance to join.
Knock Three Times
A case of grinding
teeth as if
to shout out:
“I’m still alive!”
A strained ankle
for no reason—could be
misspelled. Those whispers
could mean it’s time to play
dead or to move
farther down river
before the quiet descends again.
Eraser Dust
A chalkboard to record the names
of childhood heroes. It would be better
if they could rhyme. It would be better
if they could be segregated
from the ones accumulated
later in life. No relatives. No future
lovers. No dead people—although
there’s one rule I might choose to break
over the sound of that ceaseless clapping.
It
Is all that’s left
of the Let It Be Records sign.
She’ll walk on shoulders
of highways—the ones singers warn
might not be too safe. He’ll go back
to Rockville
when all’s said
and done. CT not MD. She can’t go back
to a town
that was never hers. Saudade
can’t be measured
in miles or years left abandoned on corners.
A Natural Hollow in the Ash
Is where she leaves
her messages. There was a to him
till there wasn’t.
She can’t write
away the ache of witnessing
a parent slowly evaporate
on life’s bark
while still being here. Only a temporary
empty, she’ll be retrieved—
dents banged out,
recycled, refilled.
Then she’ll rest in those concave
curves and remember the name
he gave her might mean Ash.
Ten that Almost Got Away
1. I realize I’m the only one
wearing a hat on the walk to work.
2. Finally find the $100 math error
in a fee proposal.
3. Wonder about green
roofs in strong winds.
4. Wait for a pedestrian
foothold in rush hour traffic.
5. I drift through skyways
with everything on mute.
6. Don’t buy a banana
that’s too yellow.
7. Contemplate the green
banana that never ripened.
8. Notice cufflinks
on sleeves for the first time.
9. I’m relieved to be
ring free.
10. Ready to go home.
Turn to Respond
Poised to take on
another breathing
spell, I brush someone
else’s powdered
sugar off the orange
table. If I ran
into him now
in this rain, who
would ignore whom
first? Offer umbrella
shelter—a cheek
to kiss? He used to curse
me for answering
my own questions. Who’s
left? I am, I say.
