Hiatus

Leave of absence.

Untitled

The phone rings
in the dark
and it is raining outside
taking the last of the snow
off the curb

I'm given the news
downstairs
in the orange chair
not having bothered to
turn the lights on
not wanting to wake you all

so
this is it

I come up
and whisper it to you
we're warm
and sighing
and so
this is it

I shower and dress
very quietly
running the shower curtain rings across
as slowly as I can
keeping the fan on
for soundscreen
and in my mind run scenarios, plans, images
to prepare
comfortable and washable clothes
and running shoes
and layers
for this day
and what's to come

I am quiet
and contained
and bracing
and preparing

and then I hear
you downstairs
the click-click-click
of the stove
and I know

you are up
and heating water
to make my coffee
for the travel mug
for my journey
into it

that one sound
and I understand

I'm not up here
alone.

Untitled

She wanted
her happiness. First
she tried setting
a trap of sulking
and petulance
and woundedness. Happiness will come
and check on me
that was her line
of thinking. Take to bed
and weep
and radiate
brokenness. Who could resist
a gentle touch to
her delicate hand
and the cherished spotlight of
hey
are you alright?

Happiness did not come.

Then
she set out bait
rituals
and readings
of wise and optimistic
and heartwarming things. Act as if.
1000 reasons
to be happy
at the bedside
a gratitude journal
silver linings
getting organized
and together
she dressed herself
in sunny lingerie
lay down
spread her legs
and waited for happiness to come
and take her.

Happiness did not come.

Finally then
her true stripes
she and happiness
side by side
but not touching
late one night
in the damp finished basement
on the couch
in the dark
watching something bad on TV. Happiness
gets up to leave
and she slaps her hand
and digs her nails in
to happiness' hand
and hisses
every word
through bared teeth

sit back down
bitch

Happiness does
but only looks at her
with pale moony eyes
that make her
retract her claws
and shiver.

Her defeat. Her grief. An unknown
season at sea
without compass
or communications. She forgets
what she was doing
or where
she was going
until an ocean morning
sky pink
and orange
and the gulls
and a gentle heave and lap
at the weathered wood
of the hull. Her hair is
long and tangled
her limbs
gone rangy
and she presses her palms
down and lifts
herself up
to see the dawn
just to see it
and nothing else

and happiness comes

oh
she thinks
without needing
to say it

I am glad
you are here.

March

Her grief
was a thick rope of honey
that she held up high
and watched
in fascination
as it descended

the light prisming through it
how it thinned
and wavered
near the end

how it went on so long
when it seemed there must be nothing left
on the spoon
how it still came
and came

the viscous pile of it
on the plate
seeming so small
when compared to the
experience of watching it

the time it took
for it to all unfold.

Untitled

I used to count
among my failings
this one summer
where I took to riding around
with a boy
in his car
and we would park
on humid nights
around reservoirs
and parks
and defunct offramps
and listen to this crazy Lebanese music
and kiss for hours
with the moonroof open
and the air so heavy
watching the stars
and for headlights
it was
simply
its own
blissful
other world
we were there
and not there

and in the end
its probably fair to say
I broke his heart
years after that
in a marble hall
at a museum
he wanted
that summer
other world
the there
and not there
and I wanted
without having
ever had it

imperfect bliss
ups and downs
and mixed days
and at the end of that day
grounding things
like rolling over
and letting your arm
outstretch
and the back of your hand
fall onto the sheet
and the following roll
and the following hold
and a hand on your hand
not holding it there
but resting on it there
and the warmth
of skin to skin
and the knowing
from that
that even in someone else's sleep
or dream

you're still there.

Untitled

Turn to the south and see
the moment of your orphanage. First
one and then the
other and you will know
beyond all doubt
from their blind faces
that they will not remember
or see
until the time of your death. You
are alone
and this is true. All your life you have
picked wildflowers
only to learn
which ones keep
and which ones wilt
regardless of the adequacy
and manner
of their keeping. Turn to the north now. They
will not come for you. Use the
roughened edge
of your finger
to pull
and then quick snap
all the stems. Gather them up
your found flowers
in the colors
and species
and mixing
of your liking. They will be with you
gone to death on a hot dashboard
neatly in a jelly jar
tucked up behing your ear
or in your buttonhole
for all this time to come
before they are laid
or come
all on their own
to life
on your grave. They will come to you
at your death
and all before. Turn to
true north
and leave the south
to its own
weak exposure.

Reverie

I'll go back there. I was
going to do
other things
watch a movie
make salmon
make plans for
the future and my
happiness and my
worthwhile life and instead
I'll go back there I will
lay on my back and then
roll to my side and
not just remember but
go back there and
you will be there but of course
not be there and maybe
never be there
the conundrum
of time
why I can hear you
and feel you
and smell you
from here
even though you are
not here
and maybe
gone from there
neither here
nor there
so there it is
make the salmon and
eat it
while you watch the movie and
the rest of it is
in the works a work
in progress a
lot of work a
worthwhile
happiness
sometime
to come.

Untitled

Its a badly lit
bathroom and she
goes into the stall and
vomits then
sits and pees on it then
stands to pull up
first underwear
then too tight
black hose
strugging and
uncomfortable and
flattened she
should have skipped
the underwear. Dirty old
taupe tiled floor. No one
to ask
are you okay. She does
not wash her hands
or rinse her mouth. Just
stares
at herself
at the mirror
and the mascara rings
she
wipes them hard
and precisely
with dry paper towels
until they're gone. Lips dry
chapped
and stuck together
she speaks
without smiling
to herself

get back out there

purse off
the wet countertop
out she goes.

Mombasa

The end of all days. This was
the once. High ceilings, so much so the
fans are ineffectual. The mosquito
netting luffs and blows, no air reaches us. Paradise
become sweaty prison
on this old mattress
and thin blue sheets. You are
feverish
and we are both querulous. I should tend
to you and instead
I throw sticky balls
of annoyance
at you
you always skimp your iodine tablets
they said not to eat fruits that can't be peeled
hand sanitizer
is not the same
as a good handwash. You
sick you
are lightning rod
for my crackling unease
and blame. This is
not home. Afternoon prayers begin
by speaker
mosque to mosque
Allah-u, akbar
you roll to one side
and face away. The
end of all things
I can see it now
immediately
clearly
all stops. My heart stops
you are rolled away
I cannot see your face
prayers
are being prayed
and I will die
and you will die
decades from now.

I pull your shirt
and slide you to me
with the uncanny strength
and surety
of lifting the flipped car
to pull a man free and clear. My hand to your hot brow
and I mouth the words
I do not know. You are mine again
Allah-u, akbar
beloved.

Mosquitoes gather on the netting
a poisonous dark dotted swiss
driven, mindless, seeking.

Not this day. Injured day, the coast, the part of you
the part of me
that hates
as hot as this trap.

End of all days.

Fiercely now.

Untitled

We look up
through the ice. Day is
fading up there
and you look at me
sternly
and serious
as if to say

what do we do

and I think to myself
that's so you
to be more concerned
that night is coming
than the fact that you're under the ice
at the mouth of the river
with me
and not too much of an idea
of how we got here
fully dressed
and facing each other
my hair fanned out, and in slow motion
as pretty as its ever been

I oblige you
and pull you by the hand
to the edge of the nearest hole
up you go
and I see you see
the thin barrier island
at dusk now
the small lighthouse at its tip
flashing green
which is unusual
and towards it
red and blue flashings
of three police cars
going fast, we know
but they seem slow
from this vantage
its so easy
to be unmoved
by their urgency
from way out here

I'm in love with you
you know
but let's tread here
its fine here
somehow
and the pretty lighthouse
speaks all

warning
and
danger
and also
come here
and
witness
and
safe here
and
go
and
come
and

go.

Untitled

Drive out to the woods
park the car
in the dirt lot
and skip paying the $2
in the old yellow metal box
with unnumbered slots. No one
checks, and you won't get caught. Get
the baggie from the front seat, and
hold it upright
its just a twist tie
and it will leak. Carry it past the lone oak in the field
don't stop there. It seems perfect, symbolic,
but it isn't. It isn't the thing at all. Go to the
scrubby edge of the woods
where the chipmunk holes are
and the poison ivy
and the brown oak leaves
and the leggy ferns. A skinny maple
will be the thing. Take it out from the baggie
and try not to let it drip
up your sleeves
as you unwind the baker's string
and saw at it
like an idiot
with your keys. Finally
a few pieces
long enough: step up
on the highest root
and reach as high
as you can. Its not that high. Tie it
to the tree
straining your neck
arms getting tired
making undignified
strangled grunts. Its sloppy
and your hands are a mess
and you did drip up your sleeves
but its done. Take a look. It looks
OK there. Interesting, if nothing else. Now
go home. Then, come back
from time to time
and watch what happens
over time. It dries out
the strings loosen
and sag
and brown
and one comes completely off. Things
peck and nibble at it. You can see that
when you look close up. It becomes
more organic looking
more a part of the scene. Then one day
in a hurry
you stop by
and its gone. Just the strings. You're
surprised
a little sad maybe
you came to like these visits. But its
also OK. Your job here
now done. You say goodbye
one long look
at the woods
to remember. And then
off you go
to something else.

There goes your heart. At least
it was on
your own terms.

I Got Nothing

Its not a slump, its not a lack of ideas, its just a not wanting to write it down. Its like feeling quiet and and kind of funny-secret too.

Going with it. Quiet time. Funny-secret-in-my-head time.

Daylight Savings

I awaken
to the unexpected light
of this morning. Its day
already. Yesterday
and the night
are gone. I become aware
of the small sounds
of you
in the bathroom. Find
the Advil
to ward it off. Find the
Tums now
your stomach sour. A
quick brush of your teeth
for the taste
so bad in your mouth. Erasure. Not
your morning waking rituals:
back to bed now. To sleep it
some of it
all of it
away. I know. I know.

The quiet squeak of the cork
slid from the bottle
a long swallow
the fridge door held open
just so long. You
were getting a glass of water.

Down the stairs you go
to get the laundry
whoops!
you forgot
already got it. I'll find your
empty
in the flowerpot
in the spring.

To someone else's kitchen
to start to clean up
one big slug
before anyone gets up
and comes in
to help you.

I know. I know. All I can
manage is
I know. Not even yet
how I feel.

I know your rituals
like mine
of changing
the batteries in the
smoke detectors
resetting the clocks
in the house
and in the cars.

My finite tasks. Your
adaptive shift
of wrenching rhythms.

Two Things

In this exact moment
looking at a brown wall
running the treadmill
at 10:01am
at the Sheraton
fitness room
in Portsmouth
New Hampshire
22 minutes
2.15 miles
and 159 calories burned
into this thing

there are two things
I am thinking of
that I love

the way it feels
to walk the length of a moving train
in the opposite direction
from the way its going
so much so
I bet even people
with treatment-resistant depression
would feel good
doing that
just for that moment

and the way it feels
to cut a ripe mango
in just the right size wedge
and eat it with nothing
but my own hands
and mouth
juice running everywhere
and who cares

two things
that I did
and loved
on that treadmill
that no one could see
but now explain
why I am smiling at the guy in the lobby
and the kids on the elevator
and the lady with the cleaning cart
in just this way.

Evening

The last of the days
sunlight coming down
through the sparse tops
of the old pine trees
reddening some branches
and not others

the sun
always further away
when you see it through high trees
a remote
celestial body

than when you see it
familiar
in a wide open sky

light makes it through
this old kitchen window
for forty minutes
every evening
this time of year
the only time any
direct
filtered
light comes in the kitchen. It
unsettles me

and while I hear the descending trills
of the robins
always last to bed
and though my hair is back
in a ponytail
and scarf
and I am even wearing
an old linen apron
with a print of cherries
and bluebirds
and my hands are covered in flour
and shiny with butter
from the pie I'm making
with the berries I picked
lacing homemade crust
and lowering the door
of this ancient oven
and shooing away children
from the yellowy and blue gas heat

here filters in anyway
an evening unease
that even the comfort
and safety
of the old-fashioned
can't save us from

what will save us:

when it is full dark
with crickets
and bullfrogs
and we eat this pie
and I jump on
and run the length of
the couch
and jump on
whomever's back can stand it
to catch me
and then chase the children
and make them shriek
with mostly thrilled delight
and one bit uncertainty

that sad sunlight of transition gone
from the window
the birds quiet
proper dark now

the relief of being here
and not inbetween
the almost gone
and almost come.

Untitled

We are up and over the
bridge again
the strange flight
midair
in the air
suspended
and moving
and no outcome for certain.

The view is again
water
and the line of the island up to
the break
and the sea beyond
and then newly
the huge turbine
its three blades
turning or not turning
and everytime making you blink
at the unexpected beauty
of something
anything
so massive.

Do the thing that must be done.
Do all the things that must be done.
You have no time. You are
coming down
from this place
in the air and
nothing is
guaranteed for you
or certain. You cannot say
if that bottom
of this hill
will be yours.

Do the things that must be done. Your
time is
so short
spin the blades
they are turning now
generation
and energy
and flight
do all the things that
must be done

with the same
exacting
grace.