poetry
Listen, Brother...
today I am a story in the foyer of this house
where no one has a fault without finding one.
Yesterday's breakfast bowls, Nana's mirror thrown,
the hole kicked in the wall--I box the blame away.
I am no saint pinned between mother's prayers.
I leave the dry body of God tacked above her
bedroom door. Today, I tear vespers
from my saxophone, loud in hollyhocks,
crowded parks, on the backs of trucks
with road dusted cuffs. Accompany me
through the alleys to the bars where the fighters
fight and the drinkers drink where the night is
a bare bulb and I can see your face as a man.
I am not girl today, brother, braided and hidden
in high grass as dad kicked your ass I collected
your broken grace: blue wings he tore from your moth
body in my hands. This morning doors opened
themselves to me, bread overflowed the bread
pan, Spring's first crocus green to be born
again cracked the hoarfrost. Come...listen
to the trees. Ride your gentle spirit wild
into the pines beside me, bury your old self
extinct and be glad for it. I am Quixote,
Carmen unleashed upon her feet, flying
Knievel iridescent in spangles smacking
the sky. I am burning the kitchen, I am
burning my clothes. Listen brother--I am
a story. I am a song. Tell Mama I'm gone.
Degas' Dancer
lady by the bath
bent double hair
knotted nape inked
out in wrist flash
the line goes
here the hand
commands the eye
nods the body
begins on paper
lady in the tub
heron leg poised
towel balanced
her chorusline
waist to the window
open a dancer no
longer in the wings
today I am a story in the foyer of this house
where no one has a fault without finding one.
Yesterday's breakfast bowls, Nana's mirror thrown,
the hole kicked in the wall--I box the blame away.
I am no saint pinned between mother's prayers.
I leave the dry body of God tacked above her
bedroom door. Today, I tear vespers
from my saxophone, loud in hollyhocks,
crowded parks, on the backs of trucks
with road dusted cuffs. Accompany me
through the alleys to the bars where the fighters
fight and the drinkers drink where the night is
a bare bulb and I can see your face as a man.
I am not girl today, brother, braided and hidden
in high grass as dad kicked your ass I collected
your broken grace: blue wings he tore from your moth
body in my hands. This morning doors opened
themselves to me, bread overflowed the bread
pan, Spring's first crocus green to be born
again cracked the hoarfrost. Come...listen
to the trees. Ride your gentle spirit wild
into the pines beside me, bury your old self
extinct and be glad for it. I am Quixote,
Carmen unleashed upon her feet, flying
Knievel iridescent in spangles smacking
the sky. I am burning the kitchen, I am
burning my clothes. Listen brother--I am
a story. I am a song. Tell Mama I'm gone.
Degas' Dancer
lady by the bath
bent double hair
knotted nape inked
out in wrist flash
the line goes
here the hand
commands the eye
nods the body
begins on paper
lady in the tub
heron leg poised
towel balanced
her chorusline
waist to the window
open a dancer no
longer in the wings
