Imagine the mountains
you would move to save
The one you loved
then switch
to the hills you might shift
for someone you were
merely fond of
then calculate the dirt
in disheveled piles
you might consider
scooping here to there
for a stranger
then last of all take this into account:
all real love stories are also physics problems
Either stones rolled in place over deliberate tombs
or somehow, miraculously
Rolled away.
they say her dress
obscured her face when they found her in the river
he as young as his eventual wife would be
when she went from girl to muse
muse is a tricky thing, Child
who never was a pipe
I inventory both the cause and the cure for addiction
The need, the proper remedy, the clouds white amidst blue in the cup of your head
Chose a different slumber
Not opioid, not heroin, not poison in the fruit or spindle, not locked in a room, not guarded by dragon
Medicinal sleep
Antiseptic reset, white coats, gently beeping monitors
Let the girl rest
Let her own dreams fell the dragon
So that when the spell is broken
The clouds and sky will spill out over her
Beautiful, fragile babies
what if this is the real world?
what if you are the ghost?
what if it is your own child
you see in the sudden picture
on the other side of the scrim
Holding
worlds both together and apart
You do the math when
you see her–how old she
was, is, will be
If she makes it that far
Refrain in your head thudding
like fists on plate glass
because you are the ghost
voice thin and impossible
just the other side of glass
as you watch her slowly
slip away.
somewhere in the bowels of the NIH there are tiny, fragile pig-children
Spun from the DNA of “us” and “them”
Which reminds me of a story—
Once there were these two guys
Who let iterations and outlines of darkness
Into every corner of their very own souls
(Whatever that is, right?)
Only to find their place among the dead
Until…
Love walked in
Dispelled the ghosts of men into the
Real and understandably alarmed
Sea of pigs
Who then chose death over the dark wraiths of men
Sometimes I ask myself
What happened to those panicked pigs?
Did they find the eternal?
And what about these new unconsenting
children of a lonely room
Half-pig, half-child
Will they be allowed to
Escape the grave
And, with no help from their human side
Find rest for their weary souls
i fish it out of the no-man’s land
beneath the back-back seat
momentarily mistake it for detritus
before realizing
it is the smallest boat in the world
dime-sized fighting ship
speculate about the shipbuilder
know the whole
time the real problem
yet to be addressed-
was it always this small?
life’s work of tiny men?
or was it once a real boat
whittled down to this diminution
by years and years of sturm and drang
in this teacup full of sea.
What are you doing up so late, little one?
Awake among the Petri dishes
No place for children
Where is your mother? Your father?
Do you mean to tell me
These nice-looking men in lab coats
Are the only parents you know
As your filigree DNA unfolds they peer
Into this sterile womb
Strain to catch a glimpse of
Your nascent primitive streak
Unwilling to admit it is theirs
We all fear
Comfort girl myself
I rifle through the postcards from
The places you have been
Looking for things you loved
Always people, always broken
Then strain to hear your voice
As you tell them about the Luke 13 people
All dead, all tragic until you
direct our eyes into the deep
Pool of Siloam, reflected the tower before it fell?
Did the blind man know it was there before he could
See you standing there
Across the street from all my loneliness
Beckon me come close
Brace yourself, Love
on the day I tell my daughter it is
mourning dove with a “u”
I remember you are gone
And count the things I used to say
About your father, your brothers
All named the same
(Like all those George Formans)
I still do not
Know which fight you lost
Left to
Cut through the jungle path
To the sea, to the sea serpent country
where we were young
all together.
Last spring I sheared my own crown, playing both the sheep and the shepherd in a one-woman show about redemption.
The thing is:
You can’t redeem yourself, no matter what lovely poetic last
Name you have been given.
I see the boy you used to be
I see the lost in your eyes
Playing both sheep and shepherd in your own one-man show about…
I will always love you.
Who says that and means it?
Not me. I am a coward who cannot handle her always
Ten years since he died
And I stand in the dollar store conjuring up themes for a party girl
Bikini contestant party girl
Written in permanent marker
The lost in their eyes, the voice in my head
Man who played both the sheep and the
Shepherd in his own one-man redemption show
Thorns for crowns/ Paper crowns/diadems, tiaras
For the children we will be
At the wedding feast of the Lamb.
Tell the inhabitants of this broke-down place
new sheriff in town…
who so resembles the
wise child posed
Years ago in a picture
Beneath this ink-blue-night-sky sombrero,
Clark Gable mustache, glint of forever in your eyes
As this endless tide rakes an uneven shore
As words fail to form the adequate cup for sorrow
You go on-
Unstoppable heart.
Boy with the unstoppable
Heart.
Carrying Light 