the poet says
she’s sorry
to the tree
for being
so needy
alive / dead
how do you
resurrect a blue
spruce after it’s been
reamed and
the evergreen
moment is gone
then wipe the black
liquor from your lips
Low on the Horizon
nothing to prompt us
the first boyfriend question
still unresolved / a new year
it’s just another day
when the temperature has plummeted
as if on cue / the morning sun
converts a thick layer
of ice over everything
into diamond-studded
streets and sidewalks
velocity and momentum
get mirrored by outstretched arms
upon arrival the irony
mark makes some rumblings
other gestures with straighter lines
may come back or slide forward
as firsts to hang
our thickest parkas on
after a morning outdoor refresher
who needs a prompt
or first boyfriend clearly defined
when we can wipe our boots
on the vestibule mat
so cold and so bright outside
Those Screams
while she sleeps
the last newborn of the year arrives
followed by the first of the next
in her dream
two women she doesn’t recognize
give birth in her living room
the fathers wear New Year’s Eve
party hats and blow noisemakers
to cheer on everything
that might end or begin
in the next few moments / empty
bottles of champagne roll
down the street without smashing
or waking her / a cardinal sneezes
from a giant tree in the backyard
out front three young foxes
watch the miracle
through a giant picture window
even the explosion
of fireworks over the lake
doesn’t scare them off
those screams that could turn
a dream inside out
a nightmare outside in
Who Wraps Fish in Scandal Sheets
I drive the getaway car.
I stare into the sun
during another eclipse.
Do not streak through a college cinema
during another showing of Jailhouse Rock.
I drive her to the clinic.
I stare at a man on a subway
train in the wee hours.
Do not go to the lead singer’s hotel room—
not once but twice.
I drive him into her arms.
I stare at bare ash branches outside
as they kiss by bouncing flame candlelight.
Do not write another poem about the night
that changed my life.
Please Don’t Refresh His Memory of Last Night’s Storm
when snow covered yesterday’s ice,
formed as the temperature plummeted
after a steady rain turned
Wednesday’s accumulation to slush.
What a drag she loses
a boot on the frozen drive
before having a chance
to put another log on the fire
he claims he didn’t start.
Another stale family joke
she doesn’t get.
Now would be an ideal time
to hibernate in a remote town
without access
to a back road shortcut.
They could rewrite the script
without fear of crashing
another party without a host.
One chip from one cookie
left from the last batch
he made without her input.
She never reads the menu
or removes the spider web
from the storage bin
above the cellar door.
He never removes the tag
from the sleeve
of his vegetable flannel
or bothers to zip up
the hidden duffel bag
filled with pine needles
and all evidence
that might link him to her
after another January thaw.
They Were White Cedars
I come to the swamp ready to disappear
into the primordial forest amidst cedars that stand
a distance from those dunes where I stood
above it all, eyeing a boardwalk that floats
on a salt marsh at high tide. Pause
and recall a time when I still believed
in the power of moving bodies to speak
out loud beneath the eaves as rain pounds
on the roof. A gray cottage he owned,
or, his family did. The space heater vibrated
all night. We shared peppermints after we ran
along those dunes before the perfect storm surged.
Her Duende and Guardian Angel Meet in an Alley
the day after Christmas.
Both wear black skullcaps
and matching hooded trench coats.
It’s hard to tell them apart
till they turn to face her window
two floors above.
The commotion is real.
The fear too. Why would anyone
pretend to be terrified?
Why wouldn’t they be identical
to her own desire
to become more than this
voyeur who hides
behind a partially closed blind
sipping skullcap tea
in a hooded cloak of her own?
Someone set fire to
the recycling bin,
or planted an explosive inside.
She didn’t hear it,
or smell it, or stop it
from overpowering daylit thoughts.
Castaway items have spilled out
the angry burn hole on the side:
scraps of used notebook pages,
empty yogurt containers,
a black suede, lace-up pump,
three copies of a pressure cooker
owner’s manual, not
a glass bottle in sight.
As they turn away, one of them
(she can no longer tell which)
begins to fold
sections of the Sunday paper
into human forms. Not flattened paper dolls holding hands.
Two independent ones
staring back
at her in 3D.
Only one of them
would dare do such a thing
before civil twilight.
This Floating Loop
I am a red buoy, anchored and swaying—
fettered to dark waters of dizzying thought.
You are another buoy, untethered and green,
who comes to me in a chimed dream.
There is a third buoy that has no color
I can identify—its invisibility
buoys me up
to face another mineswept day.
Instead of buoy, I should have picked moxie
or menacing or Spanish moss.
She Would Swim in the Aral Sea
how many times can she quit
her life during a blackout
and come to high
on the branch of a sycamore tree
how many times must she whisper
mirror mirror on the floor
were you ever in the hand
on / off the wall / off / on
the ceiling / tell me
a true story
how you ended up there
how I ended up here / looking
down where my feet dominate
not the eyes / rarely the mind
sometimes the knees / I ask
a stranger / you are
no longer a stranger
we’re all strangers
to our futures
reinventing the fairy tales
that have kept us
trapped between panes
of glass / untranslated water
lips of blood / dried-up seas
she can still taste
the metallic / irony
on her tongue from the old type
foundry matrix
she remembers hearing
the steamship whistle break
the news as the ferry left
the strange comfort
of its berth
recalls wanting it to be
the Uncatena or Nobska
or the one she knew best
the Islander
recollects knowing
her wish will not be fulfilled
dreams of another uncharted journey
to the Staten Island boat graveyard
where she might pay her respects
to leftover scraps
of the work horse
that shuttled her
between all those places
that might be stitched together
to construct a make believe
childhood home
along with the other tugboat
and barge remains
that keep so many secrets
sealed in the muck
The Unlicensed Mocks Car Model Fails with American Sentences
The new nanny is no lady who sings opera, but loves fish that scat.
No bimbo, she wears a sandal on her left foot to probe the wizard.
To the naked eye, a sea otter pup will dunk the lettuce head first.
That’s not all there is to the story—just another memory dump.
