A poem I wrote years ago in response to the collapse of the 35W Bridge was published in the Star Tribune in recognition of the 5th anniversary of the tragedy.
Temptation Stage
This is my novelty
act she declares
to the empty chairs
rimming a painted
blue room. Watch me
flash my willpower
through still air. A cigarette,
ashtray, bottle
of vodka, shot
glass, and the number 8
all lined up
on a table
she will not touch.
Now for Act II.
I Wouldn’t Dive into You
Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.
Make Believes
The same story
in seven different languages.
She can’t find hers. Where? Could be tucked
deep inside
those accordion folds. But, no,
this could be
his. To pretend
to be mute
at this late date could be
his one last act
before a hunger strike pulls
down the red curtain. Or, no,
that one might be
the one she abandoned
years ago at the roadhouse
now something else altogether.
Pick
One of thousands left
all over stages and beer
shellacked club floors across
America, I am
the first
to press against
those strings you strung
across his favorite
guitar. Triangular
and blessed chip.
Green Window
Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.
Her Burden Doesn’t Go Silently into the Civil Dawn
It was not my choice
to collapse, says
the bridge in pieces
on the west
bank. A strip
of purple light
strikes a pose
across her face. And
she wonders
how it feels to drop
guilt so easily
on vacant land.
Emerald Coat
She only hugs me
tighter when the wind picks up
fear and tosses it wickedly
through early fall air. I am proud
to say my hue draws
attention. She blushes
and says thank you as if
they were complimenting her, as if
it were her radiant skin
brightening up the morning. But
she can talk—I can’t. So
there’s that.
Without Words
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)
My Perch
I am that fly
on the wall—less
interested in what they are saying
about the arrogance
of that bartender, the scandal
brewing about his niece. More
concerned that the girl
in the red dress
will turn my wall into a sliding
glass door to open
or lean against
with silent longing.
