Gothic of course with gargoyles
wandering the ancient halls.
timeless despite the chiming
never to be heard in unison.
Clock hands close in prayer
where, gowned, the giant ravens
barely see the visitors’ gaze
in shades of admiration.
An aria sung on a bicycle
drifts graciously through the years.
“Wait to be asked” was sound advice
in finding a life worth living
among minds higher than mine,
their intellect as tangible as stone
were stone winged for flight
above reason’s indifference.… ...continue reading
“Your difference isn’t a detour. It’s the point.”
Before me came words that showed the way
for everything after me.
I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I’d been rehearsing for weeks.
I tattooed every line of that script
on the tendrils of my being
in case anyone forgot their lines
or became ill or perhaps died.
But I had no understudy
when I fell into an obscure coma.
For several days, I lingered,
the persona illuminated but quiet.
They had to start the show without me,
my twin brother quickly hired
to play my role until I woke up.
When I emerged from my chrysalis,
I realized the words needed to be different,
the detour actually better than the journey.
I shed my wings to walk again instead,
the flying comma becoming a voluble period.… ...continue reading
He angles his cart in the middle of the bread aisle. When she clears her throat, he mutters Sorry and looks at her feet. He’d singled her out because of her sandals, thinking it would be good to start with a solid foundation. He studies the length of her toes, shape of her ankles. When she clears her throat again, he moves aside.
—
There are so many vegetables to squeeze and thump in produce. He hears wheels squeak and sneaks a peek. She’s not as tall as the bread woman. She reaches for a tomato, her long fingers a tiny bridge. He takes in the creases of her knuckles and every chip in her bright red polish.
—
Most places, like the streets, are either too crowded or empty.… ...continue reading
Noah tapped the pocket of his swim trunks once, twice, three times, making sure he had his keys, phone and wallet. He checked the front seat, the back, and the cargo space beyond, making certain he had everything.
The twins, Natalie and Leo, stood by quietly, knowing from experience that interruptions generally resulted in additional delays.
“Right, let’s go then!” their dad said at last. Noah adjusted his backpack, slung a folding tent and a beach chair over his shoulders and tucked a boogie board under each arm. He took each child by the hand for the journey across the parking lot.
“We passed this before,” Leo noted.
Noah had circled the open lots several times before deciding where to park but he didn’t think the kids had noticed.… ...continue reading
Of Virginia Woolf
‘We are the words. We are the music. We are the thing itself.’ Moments of Being
Are we the things we think we are?
Or is there another music
with words we have never heard?
Something close to the heart
becomes the essence of us,
a truth enabling the sense to be
what is spoken, what is sung.
This sound evades the silence.
There lies the fear within,
of never being believed.… ...continue reading
We were supposed to be having babies,
Raising life in a little historic townhouse
Ideally downtown, so that I could walk
To the coffee shop everyday with the
Dog and the kids.
I wonder if we would have had a girl
First, or a boy.
Would we have stopped at one? Two?
Surely not three.
Would we have taken family photos
At every holiday and have large canvases
Of our smiling faces covering the walls?
Would we have worn matching outfits–
After you pitched a fit of course–
Or would we be more subtle,
Maybe some matching shoes?
Would our daughter have my nose and
Our son, your eyes?
I can see us now–
Curled up in bed, with the dog in between
My legs, a spunky pigtailed daughter
Kicking my ribs in her sleep,
And a mousy younger brother who
Accidentally knocks over the collection
Of bottles on your bedside table– crying
Because daddy hasn’t had much sleep
And is quick to anger when hungover–
The floor covered in shit because the
Dog was not let out before you
Stumbled into bed
And me, eyes wide open
But stiff as a board
Not minding the
Repeated jabs in the ribs.… ...continue reading
There is something sinister in the strings.
Brooding underskirts comment and rustle outside and between legs.
Invisible undergarments bustle and bounce making wearers levitate to the floor.
And on some days you can dance love,
And on others passion, or sorrow, or joy.
But today under uncertain cellos,
The waltz is forgiveness.
Love
Hate
Late.
I catch you in my blinking eye, straight ahead, a few comfortable handbreadths away.
An eye and face familiar, inviting, like a favorite overstuffed chair
Or warm quilt, heavy blankets, slip inside shivering and kicking until burning and have to stick one foot out into the cold.
Or a favorite story that’s been told over and over again until every inflection of every word is known before it’s said,
While I drift off and pull my leg back into bed.… ...continue reading