It’s a thing.
Curvy frump
topheavy and
stunted short -
portly even
You say
otherwise.
You are
nowhere
to be found -
so she sinks seeply into
sidewalk cracks and
buckles the bikepath
lifts root to foot
shakes it all up
and runs fatly
toward the
closest
mirror.
Shining hot enough for no coat
I join the sun, rake in hand
freeing the sleepy green -
busting upward from its long
lazy nap
Smell of chainsaw gasoline and
I’m back at the camp -
ten-years-old in my two-piece,
admiring the multitudes of
waterskiers mastering the lake
that I adore.
When asked in the deep of season
which is my favorite, I’ll usually
recall the sheen of coconut oil
against sand and surf, or those days
of swimming until exhaustion at the lake
but here, on the welcome of the
snapping off of winter’s kill,
unleashing the loose seed from its nest of
last year’s skin, sitting coatless for the
first time – under the blue
without wish of forced hot air,
I remember what I’m sure I won’t two
months from today…
spring is always my
favorite.
Most women choose
wisely their seats
in this life
Often mummified
in hormonal gauze -
Fogged with their burdens
of emotion and heart -
alas, their strengths.
They wander with aim -
some bravely, with their sisters.
Others charge ahead ugly -
later miserable with the lonely
chair they’ve chosen.
In the end, it is their
walk to walk – no fault
but their own that they
lazily dropped their
eyelids when
making the
journey.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Suck of rolling
pucker of paint
sponge saturated and
sopping lure of latex lick
Drive of arm up, up, up
then back downward
waxing the wall and like
magic, aged-white
marked heavy by
smoke curls lashing
near-gray, now
coated clean
with the smoothest
and quietest of
clear blues.
You, down back
burning the couch
beating the tar out of the
place we sat just last week
our first major purchase
made in our coupledom,
bought with my brokerage job
bonus (remember?)
now food to the flame
crackle and spittle
broken down wood ash
and it seems it should
mean something
something symbolic
something weighty
or dark – about us
but it doesn’t
it’s just heat and smoke to
warn the kids about and
crumple of dusty fabric
to pack away until the
next trash pick-up.
You, just down back
burning the couch.
Cycling naked over
hills of stars
through blackest
night filled with hope
on the brink of tomorrow
I shudder with the
wind, but goosebumps
or not
I wouldn’t have it
any other way.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
When I was nearly an adult
I took the ferry to the Vineyard
sculpturous waves slapped
in time with the boat’s rolls
but I didn’t hear them -
foam-earred walkman
playing ‘New Fast
Automatic Daffodils’
twice through
young and not in love
I was meeting a
near-adult boy
who lived stranded
islandbound for the
summer
I thought he was cool, so
I thought I was too.
My shoulders red
after the sun’s day of play
and I stepped off
the brow to
my first whiff of
independence and
mistake.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
…and at six years old I wanted
to be a Balanchine ballerina
(how cliché)
given these wide hips
and heavy breasts I too soon
knew it was pipe dream
ah, born to birth
without the temperament
to follow through…
So at six, when she passionately
proclaims that she’s going to be an
Artist
(more prolific than
I’ve ever been at anything)
I tell her “no you’re not -
you already are.”
taut fishing line
teetering flock swoops -
museum air like a
drug through my
nostrils
lungs full of days
gone by
of paint
and extra
time on my hands
flapping with no wings
better than the real thing
as you fly above the head
of a shriveled artist
and alas
there is no fear of
poop.
.
written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Your roommate opened the door
to my thin black dress &
bare oiled legs
(I’d have sweat in pantyhose
if I knew it’d mean that much)
You smelled like
delicious you and we
drove to Westhampton
soaked in the gravel
of Soul Coughing
Hot from all the heat
you barely cracked the window -
you could see I put a lot
of thought into
my hair
Now dancing with our
offspring in our jointly-made haven,
your glint in our daughter’s eye
my chub in our son’s
cheek
I share the music -
(actually they dance, while I bask)
our soundtrack from the
first of many important rides in
your little red car.
