hairline fracture
the ribs are a fragile cage
for her heart’s urgings
your boney skullcap
hot brain
firing nerves
eyes, brow, hands
tongue, lashings of teeth-
scarred knuckle, muscle
control, those abs
pects, the six-pack
punches
through bruised organs
she hears their music
in her ears and heart’s distal
pulse, your ancient cadence
fists
face
feinting
bloodlines traced
back to the cave
beneath fractured ridges
into the boneeap
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Sons
Male of Elizabeth
for my sons, and my grandson, not-yet-bornI wake in the morning
his voice in my body
a language I can’t follow
a crescendo, a leaky instrument
he was a boy with a voice
that betrayed him
a sharp blade
for an Adam’s apple and words
that hit the window like sleet
he left me remembering
the quiet thrum of rain
the day he was born
the blade that saved him
after a dive to grab his waving arms
I still tread
in that water and blood
of the child who was named
male of Elizabeth
the patchwork of our bodies
living, breathing
speaking broken languagesphoto by Sally Mann
Sunday, August 17, 2008
What they see by the light of candles
I was the old woman
visible to neighbours
only in conversations
on front porches
at the ends of driveways
glancing back to my darkened house
where I watched them from windows
onto the world, unseen because you can’t see inside
when the lights are out
they wonder when there is no garbage
on Sunday night
nor on Monday morning when the trucks pass by
they ask if I’m alive in here
or so I imagine
I’ll be found one day
when someone follows a nose
to the body, disintegration
escaping cracks in the mortar
when they find me, they’ll understand
something about garbage
the heap beside my unmade bed
the heap on the dining room table
shit overflowing the litter box
electricity shut off months before
those unopened envelopes in my mailbox
I know what they’ll ask
when the money is found
under the mattress
no one wants to touch
defeat
how you can’t stop someone
intent on not meeting the neighbours
under any light but that cast by candles
waving shadows on the bedroom walleap
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Happy with little and still
her eyes are cloudy
the cataracts
she won’t have removed
because of the scalpel
the children
won’t understand
there can be no knives
in this life now
light has moved
from the eye to her face
happy with little
and still, living there
the laughter of her children’s children
rises over the lake
and she catches
the father of each in the flame
of memory, every bright hair of them
gleaming in the suneap
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Although we know that after such a loss the acute state of mourning will subside, we also know we shall remain inconsolable and will never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else. And actually this is how it should be. It is the only way of perpetuating the love which we do not want to relinquish.S. Freud
Monday, July 28, 2008
If wandering, considered as a state of detachment from every given point in space, is the conceptual opposite of attachment to any point, then the sociological form of the ‘stranger’ presents the synthesis, as it were, of both these properties.
via wood s lot
Sunday, July 27, 2008
you came along
before I was out of bed
loving the smell of milkweed
and wet grass before dawn
you were out scratching
the bark off a tree
though it was birch
and you let the bugs in
the same way your wet feet
muddied the kitchen floor
all the way
to the coffee
the sun rose with you
and your cup went along
to the boat shining white
in your hand
tilting your head
dark eyes in the sky
the way you slid over water
your prints dried
on the floor
Friday, July 18, 2008
of a god and love
for Paul
July 9th, 2008
they cradled you into the car
wrapped in a white flannel blanket
a few last sprigs of red
hair feathered upward
before you left home
pale kisses
from your brother
missed your cheek
I left out my goodbye
crawled onto the rear seat
my books sliding to the floor
you shuddered, Mother shouted
rain, the bees coming in
could kill you
in arms that couldn’t clutch
you tight enough
I thought you were arguing
yourself alive
for just those moments
while I left you
the last things I remember:
your thin arms
reaching for me
and one long sound
a moan rising
was it me
watching from the sidewalk
as Father drove
you on?
alone, in your cortege
I remember
what we sang:
love
I’ll always love you
but enough of love now
eap
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
My Boy
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Old Country
Ethel May Scoble Drew
Don't Call Me Ishmael
This is the life I am supposed to be living. It's always been irregular. For years I wondered, "Was I born this way?"
Now, it doesn't matter. It's been going on for far too long.
Are nomads nomadic because of the desert environment, or did they find a desert environment that suited their need to wander? How long did they search, wandering as they sought what they needed? And did they ever understand what they were looking for?
I've been talking about "gaslighting" for years. I used to think the concept arose from the Alfred Hitchcock movie where Grace Kelly's husband is trying to kill her and, while he's at it, he feels the need to first make her believe she's crazy. I can't remember how, quite. But I do think the gaslighting had to do with the death-dealing.
I learned a few weeks ago, while googling something entirely different, that the concept actually came from a Victorian detective novel. Of course. It would. All those Londinium gaslights, flickering in the sickly fog. That would do it.
Funny what happens when you start in one place and just set about the business of moving.
Nights spent under the gaslights.
It's part of the adventure to do what comes, to write what comes, and just put it out into the night. It would be interesting if someone wrote back. But, as always with those who are too far from home, without address, it's not expected.