Fire flies upon the river... up and over the swollen stream.
She said, don't you believe in anything... or me?
She set fire to a thousand paper ships.
She's worse than Helen.
She said... don't cry a river when I'm gone...
Can't you just picture it?
A thousand burning ships setting fire to the forest.
She's worse than Helen ever was to Troy.
So...what am I supposed to do... ?
Tell her no and send her packing?
She said, don't you have faith in anything? Or me?
So she set fire to a thousand paper ships...
She's worse than Helen ever was to Troy...
This old wound
like the sword that pierced Tristram's side
and Siegfried's shoulder
Achilles' heel
It is still there
an echo of the
impaling grief.
I forgot the snapping of the banner
that I was still lying on the field
suddenly remembered --
there it is --
the spear point and
all the arrows
and the ravens circling overhead
The silence of the battle
pierced by the echo of the last ringing sword
I was reaching out again
somewhere around the middle of my gut
thinking that I could call you
share the secrets and the joys
of a new year
but I reached out and caught only
the passing air of another day
the rope is slack
there's no one tugging back
I was thinking out loud again
somewhere in the middle of the day
and thinking in a reflex that you'd love
to hear about the new job, new life
anything
but I caught myself in the middle of a thought
like you catch yourself from falling
the rope is slack
there's no one tugging back
I was crying on the bus again
as these words started forming in my head
you can't play tug-of-war
or jump rope
without someone on the other end
Fingers on the
windowsill
I
press
my
flesh
down
and stand on my toes
trying to get a glimpse of you
I'm going to need more boxes
higher heels
When I hear
laughter
when I hear
someone else's joy
it's like the
curtains
are
lifted
by
the
wind
and I can almost see you
...like we're running
playing a game
in laundry
hanging to dry
in the sun
In a manner of days it will be a matter of years
I remember it
the day you opened your eyes
March Nineteenth
you looked at the clock
and you noticed the calendar
the month you had lost that we never could
clearly explain
and you never knew
the amazing things you went through
When you opened your eyes
March Nineteenth
you smiled at me
Generals wish they had your steel
a month later
to the day
that you would be gone
I miss you
and sunlight is coming through the windows
I miss you
in the sunbreaks
in the showers
the ground
the air
is starting to wake from winter
and I...
will we renew our relationship in silence
year after year?
Last spring
I held your hand
I kissed your skin
while you were sleeping
what is renewal now?
what now the meaning
of spring...
Sometimes I catch myself going through the motions
comb hair
brush teeth
hurtle toward downtown on a westbound bus
on automatic pilot
Like working in a factory
it all comes down to motor skills
hand-eye
right hand
left hand
putting the pieces together
stuck at a conveyer belt
Icicles
clicked at
the edges of
my exhalation
I stood in a
white city
wilderness
there was
no sound
just the crystallization
of time itself.
My memory
is a landscape.
You dot the land
like trees
like the wild cedar
that pop up
suddenly on
the north Texas plain
There is
no sound
just the crystallization
of your
departure
The hoary faced man at the
front of the bus says
he don't like algebra
(I tend to agree)
He admits he's no mathematician
He don't like geometry
trigonometry
he's no statistician
but he loves fractions
he wants you to know.
He says he's not
going to go there
(where is he going?)
over the Hawthorne Bridge
and across the river
Eyes so young
shouldn't look
so ravaged
There are Christmas
lights and ornaments
and sadness
tinsel sadness hanging
from their eyes...
They shouldn't have
such sad eyes at
seven and
eight
and nine
Fingers so tiny
shouldn't have
to grasp so much
There are manger sets
and whole villages
and missing her
They shouldn't have
to worry about
solemnity at
seven and
eight
and nine
Ears so young
shouldn't have to
go without her
Merry Christmases
Happy Birthdays
and Sweet Darlins
They shouldn't have
to have
such quiet at
seven and
eight
and nine
Christmas and
snow cream...
ornaments made
with fabric
swatches
sequins, too...
Christmas and
mistletoe...
villages with
twinkling lights
sleep unaware
that you are gone
Christmas in
Texas
crusted brown
grass and a leaning
fence twisted
in figure 8s from the wind
Christmas and
the story
we will be reading
without you
the birth of a
savior sun king
old rituals infused
with the new
Christmas
Merry Christmas, momma...
His wings skimmed against the water
reflections of reeds rippling, breaking down
the kingfisher
coming in for an emergency landing...
His beak showed the weathering
of five springs and summers long gone
the kingfisher
recovering from an unexpected battle
What a spring it was
for the kingfisher
What a world now
for the kingfisher
Tufts of feathers trailed behind him
pieces of him snowing as he fell
the kingfisher
falling hard in the shallow end
What a spring it was
for the kingfisher
What a world now
for the kingfisher
Remnants
we're all in pieces
reach in and grab
a handful of heart
it's all come apart
Fragments
of broken dishes
shattered hopes and wishes
are there on the floor
I've seen it before
Last year
we were all living
doing our thing, forgetting
our birthdays and cards
now it's broken in shards
Remnants
we're now in pieces
reach in and grab
a handful of heart
it's all come apart..
It is unbearable to think now that I was ever once upset with you
the very idea of that shocks me now
that you're not here
how could I have ever spent one day upset with you
how could that Love ever think it was something
other than what It was?
It is unthinkable that we could have ever yelled
that I could have ever been an ungrateful teenager
that I could have ever done anything other than look
at you and know that I loved you and
think that I had the best mother on earth
because I did.
So how could it be conceivable that I
should have not recognized that
or rather have been on the phone
or out on a date
or writing another one of the
great American unpublished novels
the hallmark of a constantly frustrated generation
I am sorry for the one-one-thousandth of a percentage
of any chance occurrence that I
was ever upset with you.
I miss you
I'll miss it here
I think of you
this time of year,
when summer's
contemplating an early fall
I miss you
and I'll miss the hills
I'll miss thinking of your visit
the times we had when you
were here
when spring was contemplating a summer drawl
I miss you
(I'll even miss the rain)
I'll miss the ocean
mountains
coffee
and seeing you again
Where is your wisdom?
It is locked in the temple...
The altar is my memory
but what will be my rituals?
Light a candle to it and
guard it like a Vestal
with the chastity of love
and the abstinence of grief
It hit me again today
from out of nowhere...
Flopping against my brain
like the landing of an albatross,
And you're gone...
And I'm skidding in the sand...
albatross out of the water
Barely fit to stand
with my legs kicked out from
under me
and undertow...
It hit me late this morning
from out of nowhere
slapping against my forehead like the
bus upon the pavement
and you're gone...
And I'm skidding down the street
out of control
with my brakes gone out from
under me
and overpass...
I hit it again today,
my little brick wall,
banging against the memory that you're
not within a phonecall,
That you're gone...
You'll have to peel me off the brick wall
or leave me stuck for good
with my soul smacked like a pancake
on cement
and on the griddle...
She keeps a can of buttons beneath her bed --
She never knew when she might need them
The can was a treasure to me
I would sneak into her bedroom early in the morning
sometimes late at night and I would smuggle
the can into my bedroom
(I am descended of pirates -- a buccaneer of boutonnieres)
I would dump them all out
hundreds of them
sink my hands in them
like they were gold coins and bouillons,
the mix-matched, rough-sided and smooth-edged
currency of lost sweaters, shirts, trousers and button-eyed dolls.
I would count them
match them
color code them
And scoop them into my hands
They clattered in the can
as they dropped in.
There was no better sound.
Sometimes I just want to get sick
to be sick because I miss you
Sometimes I catch myself picking
up the phone to dial you
It's unbelievable to me that you
won't be on the other end
Just a dial tone...
Sometimes I dream of you
but I don't get any sleep
Sometimes I remember
what we said sometimes I don't
It's inconceivable to me that
I'm talking to myself
Just a dial tone...
Sometimes I think I'm going to be next
how could I be here when you're gone
Sometimes I think about the things
I'm going to miss when I'm gone
It isn't possible that this will all end
with a dial tone.
The nurses kept saying how much I look like you. I remember one day I turned to look at you and I smiled and said, "Thanks for the compliment."
You said, "Me too."
I love you
I held your hand
I have to go
You kissed my hand
Don't go
I smiled and said
I don't want to go
You smiled and said
Then don't
I kissed your forehead
I have to go
You smiled and said
I know
I cried in the taxi
Let me out
I waved to dad
And said nothing
Push My Button
I'm a baby doll
push it and watch me cry
I even have a pull cord
I eat like Baby Alive
push my button
I'm a baby doll
push it and watch me cry
I know where it is
just like every ventriloquist
I'm my own dummy
watch me yodel while drinking water
(who am I kidding, I don't drink water)
Push my button
I'm a baby doll
push it at watch me cry
It's right there at the center of my back
right beneath my shoulder blade
the house of the broken heart
I planned to bring the bottle of wine
I coveted from France and stuffed in
my small bag wrapped in laundry
I was going to bring it for Christmas
I should have brought it for Christmas
but I remembered that wine
gave you headaches, especially red wine.
I am coming home again this year
You will not be there
I am bringing my bottle of wine
I coveted from France and stuffed in
my small bag wrapped in laundry
I will drink your glass for you
white tea & ginger
reminds me
of you
reminds me
of France
reminds me of things
I most love
the things that you taught me
white tea & ginger
a memory elixir
reminds me
of you
reminds me
of Paris
white tea & ginger
I wear on my skin
to take a walk with you
to take a walk through the Loire with you
white tea & ginger
There are scribbles of addresses
interspersed with poetry
It's all a part of a single epic --
the soul trying to find a place to be
and the body trying to find a place to land.
They support one another with
complimentary metaphor
Trying to find a new place to live
Trying to find a new way to live.
The way isn't metaphorical
or metaphysical.
It is rooted
in the practicality of needing shelter.
I could draw lines like:
As I wrap up my fragile belongings
so, too, do I package my grief.
It'd be all too easy.
I wish it were as easy
as packing and unpacking boxes.
It isn't.
I'm looking for a home,
a good fit,
modern conveniences.
But I have no idea what sort of life
the apartment will contain.
What will it consist of?
What does the soul use to pay the
body back in rent?
Mother, I think of you
and I see the gardens of a mother's mother's mother,
dusty roads of Spain
cobblestones of Italy
I can see your golden hair in the sun of it all
and in the water of the river
a young girl dips a pail
not knowing what her womb will bear
And an ocean parts the two of you
And a deeper ocean parts me from you
A bird flew from her fingertips
a little sparrow
a little dream
a little daughter
Mother, I dream of you
and I see the joined hands of our recent separation
dusty road of Dallas
concrete of a modern city
I can see your golden hair upon the pillow beneath it all
and in the water of a tear
your young girl dips her pail
who knows what her womb will bear
And an ocean parts the two of you
A deeper ocean keeps me from you
A bird flew from your fingertips
a little sparrow
a little dream
a little daughter
I gathered the waters of the Gesthamene
to wash your feet
I was your Magdelene
And there's nothing I wouldn't do
There's nothing I wouldn't do for you
I followed you to the desert
I brushed away the pebbles with my hair
to move the stones away from your small feet
I was your Magdelene
And there's nothing I wouldn't do
There's nothing I wouldn't do for you
When your mouth was dry
I put a wet cloth to your lips...
When you spent your thirtieth day in the wilderness
I was there...
And there's nothing I wouldn't do
There's nothing I wouldn't do for you
And when they rolled the stone over you,
when they said you were gone and there wasn't anything that I could do,
Bare-souled I walked among your children and all the love you left behind
Like Magdelene I cried
There's nothing I wouldn't do
There's nothing I wouldn't do for you
I knew one day that I was going to lose you.
I didn't count on it today.
I wondered about it everytime I left you --
would I be able to handle it?
I didn't know. I didn't count on this...
When I saw you in the room,
it was so sterile,
You were so still.
Even then, with everything I knew,
Even though I counted on a struggle.
I didn't count on this.
I didn't count on this when they told me.
When I was on the phone, hearing your passing.
I counted on a lot of things in life, mom.
But I never counted on that.