she

miurian, infurled
like petals pressed
and pleated
some extravagant flower
of emotional analysis
folded and packed
girdled into this bud

bugridden, byzantine.
Complex, compressed--
We never had the key
for your retrieval.
When will we see
the sail unfurled, sunglaring,
magnificent bloom--

ghost

--if i were a ghost i'd haunt this garden:
lie down below these tomatoes,
be an insect throughway. My sky
an aromatic tangle: green,
with yellow stars

or sink like rain
into the busy dark beneath:
eyeless smell the white roots reach through
my unfleshed restlessness--
Could i rest there

unlit, listening
to worms creep through this deepfurled world
this universe of small things

could i hear roots slowcreep and drink their little drinks--

oh, i could sleep
a long time

a summer long,
tomato life long
from seedsplit to ripe fruit
to rot
to make this dirt more sweet.

Spring scraps

Our backyard today is an island
Wind rushes and roars like the sea
Wrapped around us, and the sounds
Of the streets seem as faroff as dreams.
The trees shiver and cast down their leaves--
Rustle and hiss, like the crashing
Of waves on the sand of the beach--
My barefooted babies dig toes in the dirt,
Build their castles and mountains of leaves
Which the wind laps and licks. It whispers
And spits, till they crumple and slump
round our feet, in their separate leaves.

*
i think sometimes Heaven is a long string
of watermelon days:
hot, unhurried labor in good soil,
dirt black and sweet enough
for thicksprung flourishes--
tomatoes, beans--May be
in heaven there are no weeds-- may be
we know each green thing's name
and name its gift: to us, to its sisters, to the soil
May be
that good ground bears enough
for insects, birds,
for all the little hungry things
and for our tending hands
to pick, and eat
After our day's work: thickskinned,
crisp with its juice,
sweet
In heaven we will have forever
to meet each melon knit into those genes:
to cross, to tend, to grow,
to meet the scarlet, orange, gold
fleshed melons,
to open them and taste
the fruit of thornless labor
We will break them together among us
ripe and sweet
*
Sweet May! The fairest month by far.
What April promised slyly
And then in chill drew back
May brings, all golden smiling,
Drops all her beauties in your lap:
Winds her thick and sweet scents round you
Like winding--and when she's bound you
Scratches at your throat and eyes
With pollen, till you scream to die
And wish her sweets and flowers blight
That you might breathe again at night.

Song (version 2)

thought i saw this woman
black haired woman
walking by

saw her looking at me
with the corner
of her eye

i knew this girl before
i knew her going by

lived with her before
she was no kind of wife

said
i'll be your bracelets
said
let me be your bed

lie down with that girl, that girl: you
might as well be dead


lord her skin is pretty
but you might as well be dead

i said that girl
that girl i loved
she has long dark wavy hair

eyes like spiders
girl
i see you looking there

that woman, she has heavy
arms: thick and white
might wrap those arms around you
in the middle of the night

you might as well be dead then
better off alone
than lie there in the dark with
arms around your bones

i lived with her before once
might live with her again
come knocking on my door, i
guess i'll let her in

come fold me in your arms again
come tell me all your lies
i know the way you treated me

i know it wasn't right
i need someone to hold me

i can see you walking by

i lived with you before now
i can live with you again
i can feel the way you held me still

i guess i'll let you in

sounds

This is a list of the sounds I love:

the birdthick dawn. At six their whistles
are manifold, intent:
sweet squabbling

Felix and Geneva in the next room
are trying to whisper;
giggle,
their Lego's plastic crashes--
their floor is an avalanche
in blues and yellows

I do not love
the coffeepot's unlovely, adenoidal drip
the baby yelling to be uncaged
over the dishes' clink and scrape

I love a two year old's unhesitating best
S, L, R: how proud
they trumpet new, unperfect words!

I love old music. My husband's fingers dancing
medieval tunes:
my bones remember
these dances

I love doxology. The ancient creeds
recited with the saints through history.
I love the Justs and Ums of corporate prayer.
I love it when the preacher starts to shout.

I love to read a newfound poem aloud,
or an old friend.

I love the sounds of summer night,
thick, like sweet wine

and all the sounds of summer days:

the buzz and hum of ceaseless bees
lawnmowers
leafblowers
dog barks
faroff sirens
rushing cars
rap bass rattles

a distant laugh

the small sound the dirt makes
fingersifted:
light and rich enough
to eat
Sometimes, I think I hear the beanshoots growing
so eager-unfearful--
How they grow, and sing!

those beautiful children:
they are lifting up their faces,
they are green and little suns

chicken

my daughter's pink bare feet
fat, and flat beneath her
on the porch concrete

her tiny chinpoint turned
she's perched
like a chicken

she's peering sideyed
eyeballing insects
drift and scramble past

hungry, her perch:
she might dart out her tender neck
to peck up

piecewise--one sixlegged wonder
at a time---peck
up this wide wonderfull, this world

talent

It lies heavy on my palm:
small
and cold
how like a hole
in my hand
how like a chain
around my neck--

how much could i purchase
with this single coin?

It is a weight
i cannot walk with it
to market
to buy or sell
myself

I will bury it
at my feet
and sleep
until
a silver seed
untended
unwatered
it may
perhaps
increase--


will i dream rich dreams for you?
Yes
Let me sleep