To My Father

If I should die before I wake,

my soul is up for grabs--

that Green Room of my childhood

prepared me for nothing. 

A  prayer leads me through

dream 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 one he did not. 

Daddy, bless the children with

all-white children.  His love unbent

like a coat-hanger 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,

the great-grandchildren, cinnamon and small;

fragile prayer of something better than great-grandpa’s

hate for the fragment of his population, dear daddy-god,

that he won’t reclaim.  Bless God, I will not wait.

Glad…

for shrouding clouds wringing wet,

for the tapping, sequential mapping of raindrops:

‘Last seen here’ before lost in the flood,

glad to shiver and stare as the silver damp

coalesces the world to its shinier self,

glad that every surface has a new,

slick second skin that drinks daylight in,

making room for the next fallen drop.

Glad for the noise on the roof keeping time

to the tea kettle’s song.  Glad for the heat

in the cup, steam threads twisting up,

 lost to the space in the room.  Glad for the mystery

of shadows on walls, tea leaves in my cup

and lost whistles down halls.  Glad end to the

day guttered away, finally, into night.

Flowering Cherry

It is the space between the tender

pink petals I see this April day,

at first, velvet gray then spacious

blue as morning fog lifts, drifts

to who knows where.

I watch the graceful frozen dance

of the limbs in the neighbor's backyard.

Fenced in, chain links. The stopped

arabesque, the worshipful pose,

uplifted branches almost ready to give

way to green.

Mildred

I dreamed your face, the face I’ve

Wanted to see alive and laughing.

I helped crease the lines of smiles

Around your eyes and felt your cool

Cheek against my own.  To see

The blue of your eyes I’ve found in no

One elses, to be under the gaze

That knew my ways and found good

In so many things.  And in me.  So there

You stood, in my garden, in my dream,

Pale and straight, draped

With all my remembrances.

Overseeing and stern,

“Move the statice,” is all you said.

Thoroughly Modern

Functioning, managing,

coping, doping up a little

to meet the challenges.

Working up to feeling

better with the help of medications

that rattle in the bottles

in the bottom of your purse.

Warnings, indications…

the side affects of faking

better mental health

so you can talk about

coherently the things that

you run on about.  Hiding the

important stuff between

the chatter, babble really,

of all that you need help with,

but won’t get.  Weakly feign

at being stronger, long day and

growing longer—you handle it until

the children fall asleep. Wait for your husband

to drawback from your impassive shoulder

 so you can sleep the fitful sleep that

you looked forward to all day.

Little Girl Early

Little girl early on the bus

Folded up in your mama’s lap

You are sneakers,

And colt legs, long brown hair

And freckled nose

You are elbows tucked

Into the space between your knees

And shadow of puple fleece coat

You are nodding head early

Against your mama’s chest

You are sunlight falling on your face

Denim and lace settled deeply

Into the early bounce and sway

The bus holds its breath

Until the next stop.

Just as you dream, it sighs “wake up!”

No Light Will Mark

blue heron gray sky

early yet  no risen sun

marks the day 

jag and arch of low shadow lifting night

above dark breaking waves

hymns of shells hiss

urged-up prizes laid by

the sea  homaging the altar-shore  

bow and back away  alters shore

worships alone   alone

except for me       and sky

and seagulls cry  alone alone

sea catches in my heel-print cup sieves to empty

someday hair streaked

blue heron gray   no light

to mark my arch and jag

of low shadow lifting

over leaden breakers