Before the SUV Almost Ran Me Over

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For Sheri

A child takes
a piano
lesson upstairs, strong
brew purchased below,
the teacher sings. I wish

she wouldn’t. Then it stops. Newspaper
pages rustle—an old
fashioned sound. All the text
messages I don’t hear
take me from this pivot

point. An elbow
aches, and still I will sling
a bag over the same
shoulder to risk
intersections to get to you.

But can I meet the streets
of Cincinnati
where traffic accidents
hit too close
to home? I only hope to recognize her

soul gently touching my arm
when I look both ways.

Issue

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All exits are emergency
escapes from moments
that have died.
Write tiny epitaphs

for each and be accused
of living in the past. Without
them there would be
no future. The time has come

to forgive
our younger selves.

I Feel Therefore I Am

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More than a freshly cut
bundle, more than a bonfire
burning in a field
across the highway, I am

all emotion: no bones,
tendons, skin left.
Everything touches
the raw side—ecstatic

tears, smiles
through grief. I can’t
tell the difference
between my own

laughter, sobs,
orgasms. It’s all

release,

it’s all that’s left,
it’s all I’ve ever been.

Hook

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The alarms are as false
as the ladders and boots are

true to form. She prepares
to leave, doesn’t want sleep

disruption on this last night
before an angel appears—some people

go to church—she goes
straight to the source.

Figure

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Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.

Will

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Don’t you want me
to dance on your grave?
These ashes could soothe

more than feet—could be
those dead man’s clothes
are yours now.

Pons

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Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless

over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved

the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost

is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted

with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors

to escape from the message:
not to be false.

The Best Thing To Do

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To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath

is a risk

to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief

and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.

No More Delivery

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On farmer’s market
day, she helps the blind
man find his time

to cross. The colors
of a vegetable stand meld
into one kaleidoscope

wish—to do
these things without
announcing them

as some addict’s letter
to the world. This is not
what Emily meant.