Witch Hazel

Slight yellow tags for blossoms,
the first to bloom this year;
before the forysthia with its swollen nodes
before the star magnolia with white-tipped buds.

If I should die

before I wake, my soul is up for grabs--
that green room of my mind
prepares me for nothing. A child’s
prayer leads me by the hand through
dreams; hallways like throats,
dark and self-lubricating. The voice

before the swallow, the belly grumbles
while we pray, the need never seems
to leave. God, bless the daddy
of all-white children, those he terrorized
and the ones he did not.
Daddy, bless those children with
all-white children.

His love
for me unbent
like a coathanger snaking
through dark sensibility, snagging
anything foreign. If I should die
before this yearning breaks, a flood
around my feet....God bless the mommy and the daughter,

and the grandchildren, cinnamon and small. Say
a fragile prayer of something better
than grandpa’s hate for
that fragment of his population, dear daddy-god,
that he won’t reclaim. Bless God, I will not wait.

What do I Say

What do I say
to the four year old
who wants to know

Why? His eyes shining
like an Oracle who
owns the Truth. Do I
tell him the world is full
of families rejecting
little brown baby

bundles of joy? That
love is often smaller
than hate and is pain-
ful in the long hours
of the night? Some-
one began judging him

when he was inches long,
someone was biased
from birth, his birth;
before he was officially
ours, those moments
when all I could think of
was, “Breathe Breathe Breathe.”

I never thought I would
trade one family member
for another, but as far
as I’m concerned, I traded up.
What do I say? I say the Stars
and the Moon, the Merry-Go-Rounds
of Sunflowers. I say fat pink

Earthworms and Books Books Books.
I say Tomorrow and Always, I say Stay
Near and Hold Tight.

I say Breathe Breathe
Breathe to him, to us.

Robin

First the breast comes to mind,
that red vest between the brown lapels.
Sturdy bird on twig thin legs,
it seems a brisk wind could topple you.
I've never seen a bird upset, little stick legs
skyward. There you are, little
rotund friend with a sweet song
that sends me back
to grade school days, where I watched
your southern cousins listen
cock-headed groundward with unblinking
eyes. Through sun-washed windows,
the teacher droned on about spring
while we good little children budded
inside, like the trees pink with promise.
Somewhere up north the snow was melting,
eaves dripped with ice tears
but we had flowers all year round
and my heaviest coat was a sweater.