All in My Backyard

Learning he was gone and would never be back
The heat of piss and shame as I realize I am not one of the boys
A deep hole of mud
My first love, a dog
Waiting impatiently for my grandmother’s artichokes to grow
Blood stains on the corner of a stucco wall, four of his fingernails lost in the grass
A kiss from my neighbor and then days later one from his sister as well
Hours and hours and hours of hide and seek
Miniature worlds of moist dirt and the sharp cool green of freshly cut grass
Skinned knees, stubbed toes, bloody lips and black eyes
Holding hands after dark, the whole summer ahead, a promise

When The Snow Melts

There will be a body there
Still warm

From something unknown
Unknowing
Half eaten
But still alive somehow
A hollow carcass
Heart beating steadily
Through the long cold nights

Knowing that a time would come
Sun over tree tops
Hissing of ice
Ready to melt
Melting
Leaving tracks in itself
Known only to itself
Of itself
By itself

Hidden and hiding
White on white on white
In plain sight

And only slightly out of reach
Of the sun and the moon and the stars
That circle
As we circle them
Hurling towards a place and a time

Where ice and snow melt
And freeze as one
To join and become
The shelf upon which I set my cup of tea
That will melt the snow
And uncover the still warm body
That has slept there
For centuries
For never
And forever
Waiting for me
To sit down beside it
And rest a warm cup of tea

My breath will be hot
And ragged
From chasing the sun and the moon and the stars
As we play tag and keep away and hide and seek In the velvet winter sky

That weeps for the snow
That it knows will have to melt again and again
Giving up her secrets and lies
Revealing her magic that no one will ever understand
Or even try to

Sadness

A heavy black dog lies on my chest
Its weight a horrifying comfort
With breath of rotting apples and decay

A hole I can hide in
A place I am safe
A reason to curl my legs into my chest

Scream into my thighs
Covered in bite marks
Healed and healing and raw

A warm slick bath of molasses
A dead sea of my own
A floating apple

His gapping mouth
Poised to take another bite
And another

And when I’ve run out of skin
My bones will crawl into the black dog

And become the sadness
And the smell of rotting apples and decay

Color Blind

Yellow gets warmer the longer you hold her in your mouth.
Eventually, she will slide silently down your throat and warm your belly.

Green makes the tiny hairs on your arm stand up and
will make you want to put on a sweater.

Black goes on and on.
No matter how far you go, you can’t outrun Black.

White wraps itself around you like an unwanted lover and will not let go.
She will squeeze behind your eyelids,
up your nose,
into your mouth and never leave. 
She will give you a headache and make you wish you could go back to sleep.

Night Fall

The next moon I watch slide behind the trees
Will be the moon that sees me shed
The burden of skin and bone

As night falls I grow restless
Like dogs that prowl deserted streets
In search of love or meat

Stirred by the memory of a pack
That never contained me
Or even the thought of me

Let the dogs have what’s left
They are hungry and it’s the least I can do;
Feed them on a moonless night

The Things That August Brings

At first it was a bumblebee
A bright and curious and nimble thing
That buzzed about with not a thought
Of what it should or should not 

And once there was a kitten sent
Who, while we sat with friends,
Climbed up upon my lap
And purred into my ear,
A secret loud enough for everyone to hear

Then climbed back down, as kittens do,
And hid amongst the leather booths
A feline felon on the loose

One year it was a leaping frog
Something that could jump and almost fly
Inexhaustible, it was, and kind and spry

Holding tight, two larger hands
One firm and one unsure
This thing, for now, still small enough,
For lifting from the ground
And swinging in the air

And then a larger thing was sent
For one or two or even three

Augusts

A quiet, thoughtful thing
For that is how
That time is meant to be

Though, for then, this larger thing
Had pulled itself into itself
If one looked closely one could see
The frog, the kitten and the bumblebee

And then for years 
The things that August sent 
Were birds that took to flight on strong true wings
And soared to brave new heights
Though out of sight and far from home
We swelled with pride and filled with love

And now this August I think I see
What seems to be a maturing tree
With branches reaching near and far
And melodies whispered by its leaves

And I am, once again,
Grateful for the things
That August brings

All Day Darling

I want to write a poem
A happy poem

But the sounds in my head
Bump into one another
And spill the cup of tea
On my desk 
That grew cold
When I went to the kitchen to get sugar
And saw a squirrel through the window
I need to water my flowers
The clothes on the line are dry
And need folding
There’s a hole in my shoe
And my socks are wet
I need to get dry ones
I’ll go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea
That I will bring to my desk

Because I want to write a poem
A happy poem

For Jeff

If I were my dog I would think of death
The same way I think of listening and following commands
That is to say, not at all

If I were my dog I would run and yip with joy while I slept
Unfettered by the weight of worries and fear

If I were my dog I would be just as excited for the next time
As I was for the first and the rest

If I were my dog I would stop to smell
Everything

If I were my dog I would love like it was the one thing I was created to do
Because it was

It’s Snowing in Pasadena

Prism comes before prison
On the page of the encyclopedia
That I picked up in the street while walking my dog
Whose feet grow dirty with soot 
As she tries to make sense of the new smell of her neighborhood

I gently turn the burned page, brittle and frail
Marveling at the resilience of this fragile survivor
Drifting all the way from Altadena, my dear neighbor

Who now shudders under the weight of the loss of what she held and what held her
Of what held the parents that held the children that held the pets that held the love
Of what held the memories that held the past that held the hope of the future
Of what held the books that held the pages that held the words prism and prison

It’s snowing in Pasadena
I’m not catching snowflakes on my tongue
I am weeping and shuddering under the weight of the loss of my dear neighbor

A Serious Dilemma

She is growing tired
But can see the finish line
And beyond it
Another starting line
And that is usually enough
To get her up in the mornings
And out of bed
She pretends well
Most of the time
And keeps getting
Better at pretending
Hopeful that someday
Everyone will believe
That she is real
And she will be able to rest

But for now
For today
She’ll get up
And do things
And eat and walk and talk and
Sometimes 
Even smile
And hopefully
No one will see 
That in the background
In the space just behind her eyes
She is counting
And humming
And not paying attention at all

Celebration

Barely a memory of how you came to me
So frail
A foundling finally found
Keeping you at a safe distance
A tiny dinosaur in my living room
Your wretchedness
An unexpected sledgehammer

I am a slave
Waiting for you to see me
I want to be seen

Suddenly feeling myself fall in love
I weep for the pain of the loss of you
That is to come

Rainbows

Her face changes like the seasons
only faster
and with no hope of relief

Tricorn Black becomes
Stove Brown
and before long
the Artichoke Green
of days old blood
is replaced by a hazy
Chartreuse
And then,
once her canvas is blank

He begins to paint again

Risky

Cold water as I catch my breath,
lifeless for a split second too long,
before breaking back into the light

A sharp knife dropped,
the moment before it lands,
as I stand waiting,
barefoot

Pay attention
I hear a voice
Don’t drive so fast

The smell of melting metal,
a long forgotten kettle
that has stopped screaming

A breeze carries the curtain
across the floor
in a dance.
I’ve forgotten to lock the door