as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me –
and your hair and your eyes were wild.
We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
beautiful America-mesas, deserts,peaks with clouds caughtupon them,the Continental Dividewhere a dropp of rainmust decidewhether to roll east or westlike the rest of us.I speak to a groupof avid, aging Californiansabout daring to embracethe second half of life.The passions of the oldare deeperthan any wellsthe young can plumb.Meanwhile, you are dyingin New York Hospital-your beautiful face…
I have come to heal my life.I knit together like a broken arm.The salt fills the crevices of bone.The sea takes all the fragments of my lives& grinds them home.I wake up in a waterbed with you.The sea is singing & my skinsings against your skin.The waves are all around us & within.We sleep stuck…
picture hooks left strandedin the unsoiled squares where paintings were,and something reminding usthis is like all other moving days;finding the dirty ends of someone else’s life,hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,and burned-out matches in the corner;things not preserved, yet never swept awaylike fragments of disturbing dreamswe stumble on all day. . .in ordering…
with its lemony tang, its tart sweetness& your whole body stings with singingso that your toes sing to your mouth& your navel whistles to your breasts& your breasts wave to everyoneas you walk down the summer street?What will you dowhen nothing will dobut to throw your arms around trees& men& greet every woman as sister&…
the blue numeralstattooedon the white skinsof paper,I read your open bookof follyand take heart,poet of my heart.The poet as a housewife!Keeper of steak & liver,keeper of keys, locks, razors,keeper of blood & apples,of breasts & angels,Jesus & beautiful women,keeper also of womenwho are not beautiful-you glide in from Cape Annon your winged broomstick-the housewife’s Pegasus.You…
open for nothingnever to the public.Butfor the owner of the house,the key-holder-the body swings openlike Ali Baba’s mountainglistening with soft gold& red jewels.These cannot be stolenor sold for money.They only glistenwhen the mountain opensby magicor its own accord.The gold triangle of hair,its gentle ping,the pink quartz crystalsof the skin,the ruby nipples,the lapisof the veinsthat swim…
