Perpendicular on Jackson

I've been doing a lot of thinking, 

and the thing is,

it shouldn't have worked.

Hail Mary kiss at the end

of a night gone suddenly sidewise.

Neither dressed 

for the cool air. I've been doing 

a lot of thinking, and the thing is, 

She said we have nothing 

in common. But we warmed.

Then the the fear of birds.

And scared of spiders in the bathtub.

All legs but no, kill it, kill it.

You were moving away, didn't know when 

to tell you. Pushover, easily budged

out of bed but how do I keep her

big blue eyes, disappointed. Smile,

dimples and it didn't take, she didn't

take the job. I've been doing 

a lot of thinking, and the thing is,  

she didn't take the bait but

maybe she'll hold that against me.

January jeremiad and a bad memory

cocktail. Puppy love. Buzzing anger,

No one is immune.

Two sole survivors and the jury

is out. Stay-back standoff, new bombs

to disarm. I'll tell her about it at

Waffle House. I've been doing 

a lot of thinking, and the thing is, 

she ran away at the

concert overseas. She expected me

to follow. A long walk back.

I've been doing 

a lot of thinking, 

and the thing is, you stayed, I'm staying.

I'm not going anywhere. I love you.

Bridge of Sighs

Less the noise that drives you mad

and more the silence, the chamber built

where you can hear the pump of your

own blood. Some days you're Samson,

some days the temple. Catastrophize

all you want, but your favorite song 

never lasts long enough, and even if it did, 

you wouldn't like it anymore. Byron mostly 

lied about the Ponte dei sospiri — 

built too late for any victim 

to catch one last look at the beauty.

Inquisitions end and was anyone

ever guilty? It was all petty

crimes. Oh, to sleep as ducks, heads

tucked in the crease of a wing as

rain slides harmlessly away. Lift your

wing and see the apocalypse 

not as an end, but as it is, a bridge: 

the lifting of the veil.

Wicked Problems

The numbers climb higher on TV,

a distant accumulation, a nor'easter, 

a change of heart
medication, the stress, evergreen
arguments. Keep the ornaments
in the attic. Keep your distance, too.

A year of botched responses.
Pandemic panic and more bad news.
Mistletoe without the kiss. 

You can't stop the spread

of misinformation. Hark, 

dumbass: Cover your face. 

Masked things I wanted 

to write. Asked about things I wanted 

to right. Jobless, insufficient presence and

you were a gift, a vaccine, a holiday

of insufficient presents. A house divided 

cannot stand the thought of another holiday 

with or without you. 99% of people survive but

no one trusts no one no more. I love you but

the receipt is in the box. A year of talking through 

screens, The Great Conjunction obscured

by clouds. We missed it.

Every day, every year
is the same. In this play

I'm no Joseph and

you're no Mary.
Our liturgy, ritual anger,
scares away the angels.
Year after year,
The empty manger.

Hearts

You played Spades but bored
of it and switched to Hearts,
liked how you could go-it-alone
and not rely on a partner to deliver
the right card at the right time.
There was less baggage, a greater
likelihood you could shoot
the moon.

At a party, someone explained to me
how each time you shuffle a deck of cards,
it is almost certainly the first time
that arrangement of cards has ever been dealt.
All these hands, new.

So it's easy to get lost in the shuffle.
Were hearts broken? No,
Not yet. Still the nervous play,
unsure when the queen will appear.
Still holding on to what we have;
What are the odds we'll ever have it
so good again?

Camera Obscura

It's not the photo, it's the series.
This is all upside down; me taking pictures
Of buildings on the beach, you taking pictures
Of parents kissing children. I hold you close,
Then you're far away. On the road trip south
I thought you twirling your finger in your hair
Was pretty, now I know it's distant danger,
As when you wake to a stunning sunset in Ohio
Caused by smoke drifting in from a California wildfire.
The day was bad, as some are. But then, there were the
Days when it was still young and the house was still
Empty and the blinds weren't yet on the windows.
When you could see everything, when those
Driving past could jealously watch. Who will
Now tell me when there is food in my teeth?
You say you flip things I say in your brain.
Bedside retainer. See what comes up after
The fire. You don't trust my driving, don't
Trust me with other women. Objects in mirror are 
Closer than they appear. Self-inflicted wounds to lick.
Your hand in mine and we are fine. Whisper:
Retain her. You take pills for your heart. You teach
Francesca Woodman, shoot for The New Yorker.
You have the straightest teeth. Hold two fingers
To your wrist. Count. The day was bad, as some are, but
It's not the photo, it's the series. An anxious pulse
Through everything. You get bad thoughts and call,
Tachycardia. I come over to talk and you cry.
Bradycardia. Tell me what you're thinking 
The quiet things we did to each other in my aunt's bedroom.
Mornings when your whole house is light and you next
To me. The day was good, as most are.
This is all upside down; me taking pictures.
It's not the photo, it's the series.

Naivety

We were just two tangled strands of lights
checking each dead bulb to see what would fix
the blues. It's tradition. My grandmother still
cries after the presents are opened and it's been
three years since he died. I think she expects
something else. The kids are all grown and it's just
gift cards and socks. I didn't ask for this but
"Thank you so much, it's just what I needed."
The first time my mother brought my father
home for Christmas, he was five years younger
than I am now. I can't picture him at that age
because he's on his knees, swearing at the angels
in the tree about the lights not staying still.
They just keep pulsing, then racing, then flickering.
You cried the whole night in bed. I said goodbye
in the morning and closed the door behind you for
the last time. I can't picture my father doing this.
The lights go out and sometimes it isn't the strand.
No amount of plugging and unplugging will help;
you have to take from another to replace the dead.

Swell

I never told you, but I came back.
Stood at the top of the hill and watched
you push the board through wave after wave.

It was chilly. January. You told me to walk
around, see things along the beachfront
while you had your lesson. And I did.

Saw houses. Dolphins, pelicans,
attractive, uninteresting people jogging.
The clouds allowed the light to hit
the coast in selective spasms.
Farther, the experienced surfers
bobbed in lines, staring out
at the Pacific rolling in, hopeful.

Hopeful, I came back.

The instructor waded beside you
but you didn't need her; no
you didn't need anyone, waiting
for the right wave. Eyes focused.

When it comes you're flat
and smiling despite the salt.
It carries you and you hoist
yourself up to your feet, wobbly,
but you've done it, you're up
for a moment.

You fall with grace, or so I imagine
grace to be, as the wave slows on the sand.
You stand again, shake your dark hair and
pump a fist into the sky.

I walk down the hill when the lesson
is about to end. You see me and beam
a smile in front of the dim sun setting.

You change out of the wet suit in the cold air
and I offer my shoulder for balance.

Did you see her? The instructor laughs.

I nod, oddly proud. You wrap a towel
around your waist, ask me to pull the legging.
It falls, then I tug it off each foot with care. Bare
skin goosebumps in the wind.

Back in the car. You change in the backseat.
I'm in the front looking forward. It's getting dark
but you're glowing, radiant. The sun's long set.
You climb into the passenger seat, shaking,
beautiful and beside me again.

Grand Canyon

A plaque said the Colorado
was always the same size,
everything just kept collapsing
around it. Running
for so long, it cuts
deeper and deeper.
Freeze, thaw, freeze.

Stand over there,
you point,
camera in hand.

Water exerts nine tons of pressure
per square inch when it expands into ice,
another plaque reads.

You walk a few feet behind me.
We don't say much.

Rocks crack if they let anything in,
splinter into sediment over time and
are swept away.

Camera clicks. A Korean family
beckons us closer with Please,
and extends their camera to us,
Please.

I rarely see the canyon covered with snow
in pictures. I thought it'd be warm, here,
with you beside me.

The plateau uplifts,
the river scrapes deeper.

Does it make you feel anything?

I let the question hang in the cold air
like a blackbird with wings extended
over the gorge, the great wound.

La Conquistadora

The oldest Madonna on the continent;
They broke her wooden arms
and shaved off her knee
to fit her into their colorful dresses.

Put her on display in a room of her own.
See how they kneel,
the gifts they bring.

Guttural

The wind picks up
dead leaves, then dies
and that's the whole season
for you, if fall goes well.
If all goes well the ice will
wait a week, maybe more,
but then the electricity's gone
from the sky, boom
goes the transformer
and you wanted thunder.
Street gutters, you will soon
relate: gunked up, runny,
and where does it all go?
Where does it come from,
this rotting mess passing
through and over and gone?
Tires slow before the light,
slurry shot up like
low, hissing firecrackers.

Starfield

    Tonight

the skyline

is         still

riddled

   with  the

   light

        kisses

of    offices

emptied.

Last meal

Moth to the porch light
with me the sunset over
last summer's sting
and stains from the grass
dead this year, sallow
patch of memory receding
but it's better than mud.

Reseed. Maybe
next year.
I need some time alone 
but she wasn't
no moth, no dust, just bite
and blood and gone.

Buzz pause smack
too late and forever
just-in-case swatting at
what's not there
every night since.

Fix

She was the girl that always had a match
But never a light
Mmm hmm she said to everything
One tap and ash falls from the tip
The smoke drifts from firework lips
And the summer day so muzzled
You don't see the maw of night
With incisor stars snarling
The whole time hiding
You-should-see-the-other-guy
Bruises from the boys
Arm and arm down the sidewalk
Neck and neck to the tape
That breaks and everyone's won
Except her, again.
The racers tried to race her and then
Erase her before she bucked.
She knew better, knew
That nothing was ever made new
Just the same stuff moved around
The way it's been since the first bang
When she felt so much closer.
Cigarettes bright burning to ash
Burst blood vessels heal
And skin is ready again
For the night with bites untender.

Place Cell

From London to Berlin!
I just finished reading and I had to tell you, dear,
that if you lined all the neurons in your brain next to each other,
they would stretch that far (I'm assuming this was never tested).Wait,
it gets better. They're saying we have
a neuron dedicated to every place we've ever been,
a little Christmas tree light that blinks
when we get there, grows brighter
the more we visit. A head full of lights!
Maps of electricity wired into the gray
matter, housed in the hippocampus,
a lovely word which, for me, always conjures a hippopotamus.
There's no way a hippopotamus could fit
in someone's head! But all this neuron stuff
stretching so far, who knows? Anyway,
the bathroom, the office, sure,
they give a jolt, but imagine the light
from your bedroom in the old house.
The strands of holiday lights lining the
sidewalk from my apartment to yours,
the electricity with every footfall.
I just had to tell you, had to come over
because they say this is how we find things,
how I just found you, again,
how the brain shocks us to remember
to turn right there, follow the row of hedges
ten steps, pass the bookstore, quarter mile and take a left,
three houses down and twenty-four stairs up.
Zap zap zap,
every place between you and I on fire with this light
so bright, and so dark when I stray from the path.
When I'm not near you I become uncentered.
All my maps end where you are.

Edges

The days' sunned,
long legs stretched
off the blanket and
into the blades of night.

You'd said something
that stabbed and stuck,
but I was quiet.

It was hot
and there were ducks
and fireflies and probably crickets and you,
you were still
there,
fine,
I just don't remember the words.

You kept looking into the woods.
Tired? Concerned? I could never tell.
You went off to the trees and I didn't follow
a word you said as you went.

You came back and, almost bashful,
asked me to help pick the burrs from your dress,
to check for ticks before it got too dark.

The grass was flattened and browning
by the time we pulled up the blanket
but the blades, like us,
would recover by morning,
sharp as ever.

Recipes for summer

I.

Twist the tray
    cr
     ack

then
        plop
       plop

& two Cs of
lipstick stuck
on the glass.


II.

You'll need a

tree
  t
  i
  e
  d
 to a
hammock
  t
  i
  e
  d
to a tree

Do NOT flip.


III.

Whisk (1)
girl away to a beach.

Cook until golden
brown.

Soak the feet
   & salt to taste.

Chill
til sunset, then
reheat on High.
                
Wait five minutes
                          or don't.
Burn your mouth.

Atmosphere

A hot afternoon with clouds
like afterthoughts. The tree outside the window
waving to say the wind was picking up when
she says something about how each breath
is cycled through the atmosphere
every seven years or so.
Then she yawns. He laughs and looks
at the clock, says he'll time it.

She says she likes the fan on
for the noise.
Tree still trying
for attention.

Her weight shifts in the middle of the night
onto an outspoken floorboard
when the thunder was still far off.

Drops, then it all broke at once.

-

Back home after work and
he interrogates the sheets
on an unmade bed with
a long stare:
Where were we?

The floor fan on, oscillating
in slow disapproval.

It's been a few years.
Maybe there are still parts of her
here, there.

He takes off  his clothes, lies down.
Low thunder. He looks at the clock.
The fan clicking a bit at the end of
every turn for want
of oil after so long.

Hot, cool, hot, click.
Hot, cool, hot, click.

He closes his eyes, allows her to come
back, breath by breath. More thunder.

Hot, cool, hot, click.
Hot, cool, hot, click.

Theories of Extinction

It's not that I didn't believe it, it's that I didn't want to,
like when I heard that dinosaurs had feathers. All that time
spent, I was so sure. Everything I'd been told was wrong.
Your scaled skin suddenly plumed.
Snow falling around us like ash.

Eons ago I threw a plastic stegosaurus at my brother's head
and a spine scratched his temple, sent him scurrying to a
volcanic mother and, gee,
wouldn't the toy manufacturer have saved me
some trouble if it had been covered in down.

I've changed but still throw things
away, still cold-blooded, still wary of eruptions
but even more so of meteoric meetings with
the enraptured eyes of someone strange and new
and, well, we've only got so much time left.

You were always impressive,
even with all your feathers pulled back,
wings tucked against the cold.

Really, I thought we were too big for this.
It was decoration, to catch your eye.
All that color
grounded.

It's not that I didn't believe it;
I knew you could fly at any moment.

Delivery

This is the one place I feel powerful,
this selfish sharing. It's my choice.
Here, please
look here. It's me as a kid,
smiling, denim-jacketed and rolling in leaves,
blonde hair that will turn brown and the man
taking the picture, let me tell you,
he's a giant, a hero—he once lifted
the sailboat trailer off my brother after it had fallen
and pinned him, screaming for help and here he comes
so strong and calm he could've lifted five trailers, I swear,
anything for his grandson.

Yes, take it, please. Keep it.
My words to you, I want them
to keep you warm and safe
and reminded of the beauty.
There's so much beauty that I need
to share, to employ this power
to direct your eyes or cover them
because I can choose, this time, I can choose
and I have the power to change it for you
and still choose to give it all
away so freely,

as freely as the words
sometimes arrive, unwelcome,
handed down by friends
of an expecting mother
that lost the second heartbeat
and still has to deliver.
The cord, wrapped around twice.
No no no crying.

Circulatory

Her two fingers trace
a floating heart: together,
apart, together.