Lay me anywhere, just not indoors

I do not want to die indoors, 

my final taste of bleach, 

my last scent of just mopped floor. 

Lay me by a shore, in a field, 

beside a weathered stone--

even a garden hose will do--

anywhere please, just get me out 

      from behind closed doors.

I would break a window if I could 

and crawl out to the nearest wood 

to let my eyes open 

one last time on

something green, immense, 

something born,

where I can mulch with those 

already gone, 

where stars can clearly see 

what's become of me 

and once again reach out 

to gather 

         my remaining matter.

The Lanai

On that lanai in lovely Kapula, 

a white moon stares down all alone 

but a pacific roar tells us 

       life is near.

As does the steady groan of frogs 

buried in a slime

of hideous creatures and 

      frightening possibilities.

And above my head, every second

a new electrocution scents the air 

with sizzling flesh, dangling the inevitable 

      before me.

The watchdog

 

The way I cling to this ranch house
with its many useless rooms,
for yet another season 

though my man (and our children) 

have rooted elsewhere now.

Another summer folds into another
autumn and it is October 3 again
when he was carried out past midnight.

I still sleep in that bedroom 

a whole decade later

steadfast on this crag like 

one of those devoted watchdogs
that curls on its master‘s grave
till some kind strangers pry

her away.

The glow

 By day I’m a hummingbird in love 

with the sun and the garden, flitting 

from thought to thought to thought but 

after dark I turn into a woman

who sleeps in a bedroom strung

with tiny lights (my magical, secret cinema)

not to brighten my empty bed but

the glow reminds me of him 

who flutters about the room

mute as a moth escaping the night

for the remote village of our bed

just to let me know 

this remains 

his permanent destination.

Blame

 I am not too surprised when our oldest 

      let a wound

on her 43-year-old foot fester 

      for two months until it sagged 

to a blue mush, 
      

      until that leg was chiseled

down to half today.

Now I can’t decide whom to blame

for this latest catastrophe.  

She wasn’t dealt a good hand at birth

     my husband always said 

about her disability—this mind 

     that can’t count change,

and trusts too easily.

But I was the one who let her leave

     the board and care home to live 

with the boyfriend. 

Still, how much blame is mine when

      she kept running away

      to him anyway?

I can’t blame the boyfriend either.

     He does all the laundry, all the shopping,

all the cooking 

despite being legally blind

      and on dialysis. 

Blame isn’t black or white.

      It bleeds across a spectrum,

in pale grays and starchy whites,

      and bruised blues 

      like a rainbow.

Blame leads to talking to yourself

     and feeling stuck 

and wondering if things had gone

     better for her 

if my husband hadn’t died.

But blame is also myth-making.

     And offers second chances, ways to build

one more version

      of the past.

My mother-in-law's orchid

 Stepping out mornings into my sunny garden

a different kind of time unfolds.

Coffee mug in one hand, I turn on the hose

with the other. 

Cool water showers the herbs and I hear 

a quiet applause rise

in me for their perseverance—

those deer did not return.

I pinch buds from the basil and the scent

bursts like green confetti into

my nose and move on

to my mother-in-law’s orchid.

It’s lived 13 years without her now —

Lived with her a decade before that

neglected by her and now by me 

who neglected both.

And yet it endures. 

Like her, it keeps on giving.

I’ve pruned my guilt about it but 

it grows back like her orchid’s improbable 

blooms, a sweet gift and a silent 

rebuke.

Back in the kitchen,

the basil’s scent won’t let go.

Each time I brush hair from my eyes,

a wave of green spice fills 

me up and quiets the sting 

of that regret and of children 

who take too long to call.

But when they do, it’s not the basil’s calm

but the sudden, soaring thrill I feel

when seeing that orchid bloom again.

The language of light

The sewing needle I thread to fix

my boy’s belt loop 

drops from my fingers and 

vanishes

into the beige bathroom rug, 

impossible to find until 

I flick on the ceiling lamp and

instantly 

a silver streak lights up that needle 

like a stage spotlight.

I have learned that light consists 

of tiny photons, each one racing off

in every direction

forever

and each one holds a record 

of where it’s been, like a  postcard stamped

with the return address of a star or a moon

or a ceiling lamp

that my eyes read in a language 

I don’t know I know

and suddenly—needle…. there.

A miracle the universe sends

messages all the time, telling me

Look, this is what’s here, 

this is what’s real,

this is what you belong to.

The real miracle though isn’t the light

but that there’s a me

to surmise the wink on the floor.

oh how we hang on

Oh how we hang on 

even to our ficus, making sure it leans

 toward the light and keeps greening up, 

hoping our orchids only play dead and 

will burst back into bloom-- 

and stay there. 

We want every last leaf and frond 

and fern to make it, 

also our cloudy-eyed German Shepherd--

may she sit by my feet forever and 

may the cat keep watch in the window and 

may our kids and friends--all--

hang on—

our own selves especially—and 

leaf out again and again 

without end.

Oh how we hang on.

We sit on the porch and sense eternity —

right here, beside the Rosemary and Mint.

And when the bougainvillea finally gives out,

when the dearest friend doesn’t pull through,

we stare down at the ashes and 

make something infinite 

out of that smoke, see a world 

glowing at the edges

 without end.

Oh how we hang on.

Grief gets strange like that—rank and holy.

Even though we follow the science,

and nothing about forever makes sense.

My husband died ten years ago.

His ashes fell soft as snow into the sea—

no words fit for that world beyond 

atoms and forces, yet mind holds 

him intact and some part of him 

keeps glowing in the dark.

Oh how we hold on

and pray for the soul to slip

into the sky 

like a bird let out of a cage,

and there is a lasting flame 

at the center of things 

that never goes out.

Oh how we how on,

tell ourselves that flame was never born,

so it cannot die.

A whole forest of priests agrees with us. 

But it’s the wind through the oaks and 

the way the moss clings to stone that 

persuades us we will hang on too.

The part of us that longs for 

the ever ripe apples 

in our never rotting hands.

I don't know what to call it

 We raised him to be all he could be.

He was a boy who seemed spun from light.

A firefly caught in our hands--winning

ribbons, trophies, hearts--

as if it were all just games he was born 

knowing how to play.

He made it look so easy.

We thought he’d go far.

Maybe to the moon. Maybe past it.

We didn’t see what would catch him.

I still don’t know what it is.

The vulnerability, the break, the hidden thing.

I don’t know what to call it — 

the thing that caught him.

If I could name it, maybe I could fix it.

On my worst days, I want a reason.

Someone to blame.  A fix.

On my best days, I let the mystery be.

He’s a natural at everything that doesn’t pay.

Telling stories.

Lighting up a room.

Giving things away.

Not a natural student.

Not a natural earner.

Not a natural builder of a safe, steady life.

When he asks for money now, I say no.

I tell myself it’s for his own good.

I tell myself it’s for mine.

Tonight he texts: he’s sick.

Can’t work.

Needs food.

And my wall starts to sag.

I want to throw open the door.

I want to buy him a week’s worth of groceries, 

a year’s worth of groceries, 

the whole grocery store.

I remember the fake Christmas tree.

The way he stood there, 9 years old, begging

for a live one.

I’ll buy it myself, he said. 

For our family.

I think about his birthday money spent

on teddy bears.

One for every girl in his class.

So no one would feel left out.

I think about the boy who told me his classmate 

Robert Garcia was the best runner, best swimmer, 

best student.

And when I said,  I'm sure you’re the best 

at something, too, he grinned, I am.

I’m Robert Garcia’s best friend.

And now I don’t know if giving to him again 

saves him — or sinks him deeper.

I tell myself it’s a boundary.

I repeat it all like a prayer.

I don’t know if no is love.

I don’t know if yes is love.

I just know he’s asking.

His parents were sending him somewhere he didn’t want to go

We were in 8th grade and Dennis didn’t want to go 

into the seminary next year, 

though he looked like the type of boy 

who ended up there—fair hair already thin 

and splintered at 13–

surely he’d be bald by twenty–

and he was chubby. 

I thought who cares if they make him

go—no girl will want to marry him. 

I think now he might have liked me 

in that queasy boyish way because he played 

so many pranks 

and isn’t that how boys that age 

show their love? 

He had 5 brothers and I had a crush on the oldest —handsome Paul— 

already in high school. 

I would call his home just to hear his voice 

and hang up when he said, hello.

I heard on TV that his father had a hard time untying 

Dennis from the closet rod where he was hanging 

from his own necktie. 

In Catholic school, boys had to wear suit 

and ties to Mass 

so Dennis surely had a few. 

The rumor was his brothers wept and 

wouldn’t return to school for weeks. 

Paul met me in the park one Saturday 

and still could barely talk. 

We sat side by side on a wooden bench. 

I hoped he‘d hold my hand, daydreamed even 

of a kiss. 

But I could smell his sweat, 

see his brown eyes open

yet blind. 

He didn’t want to go.

That’s all Paul said. 

I feel shame now that I brought 

my 8th grade graduation photo to show him. 

Hoped he would call me pretty, ask

 if he could keep it. 

I tried different ways, believe me, 

to get his attention.

But he was weak from no sleep.

So I gave up and 

sat quietly beside him, 

thinking about Dennis. 

His round face and dumb laugh. 

And remembered the last time I saw him. 

How he ran up to me outside school and 

grabbed my books and stuffed them all

into a mail box. 

I wailed at him, Dennis Glouster!

You’re gonna wind up in a cemetery 

before you ever get to a seminary!

I wish I could say grief stuck in my throat. 

But it didn’t. 

I thought only of the irony. 

And opened my mouth to tell Paul 

but shut it quickly, remembering

It is a sin to speak ill of the dead. 

And so we sat there, the silence 

of our breathing hovering over 

that park bench. 

Me in love with him, he in love 

with Dennis.

In praise of mothers

Praise mothers who stand guard around 

the merryground of our children’s lives 

for as long as we are able. 

Praise our moods that bob up and down 

with our kids‘ own happiness 

and praise us for the love we stubbornly give 

and for all the new languages

we must learn 

to keep up 

with their evolutions

Praise us for showing up for duty 

as often as the stars

 in the Milky Way

and for seeing the light 

in our kids‘ eyes and 

helping them to dream

praise us for accepting their strange desires 

and relearning our own courage 

Praise us for letting them run barefoot 

and shirtless

For being the oar guiding their boats, 

for teaching them how to get good deals 

at the markets, obey speed limits, 

pay their bills on time 

And for not saying 

Damn I told you so when 

they fall for a scam the first time 

knowing how hard it is to live 

well in the wild

Praise us for waiting in the dark 

for them to come home from

those parties—whether or not we snapped 

Praise us for the good lies we tell them 

when they ask, Do I look fat in this suit? 

and for helping them create— like a snail

 —a protective layer

and praise us for not drowning in the sea 

of their reproaches, refusals, tantrums 

Praise us for knowing the world finds its way

in no matter what we do

Praise us above all 

for when there’s a warrant out 

for their arrest and 

we don’t erupt into flames

Praise us for tiptoeing out of their lives 

when it is time—quiet as dusk— 

but praise us--for leaving 

the porch light on.

The power of my olive trees

The olive trees have stood here 

far longer than I have 

and likely will outlast me 

by centuries.

The arborist who stops by doesn’t want 

to trim them. I ask why and 

he looks up at their leafy limbs and 

shakes his head 

with reverence, 

Because they’re beautiful

and I’m an arborist!

But I’m a worrier, and so is my neighbor, 

who sees their sprawling arms brushing my roof 

as kindling for a wildfire.

The arborist chuckles: 

No, no. Olives hold water.

In a fire, they’ll sneeze

Or burst into juice!

I hadn’t known that olive trees have such powers, 

or that if burned to the ground, 

they resurrect from their roots. 

Wonderful. 

They remember who they are.

When we moved here in 1995, for a few autumns, 

the kids pluck olives, fill baskets with their tout skin, 

each a bitter blessing 

till cured 

with salt and vinegar and hidden 

in our dark garage for months. 

The kids help until growing up becomes 

distracting and then the baskets 

are put away.

Now, every autumn, the olives drop uncelebrated

to the ground and 

vanish into the leaf blower.

There’s grief in that. 

A splitting in me, like bark under stress, 

when I recall the simple joy of gathering

and curing—rinsing off the bitterness, 

tucking the jars away. 

Watching bitterness turn edible

And now to see the fruit so wasted. 

And the kids have long moved on and

never mention these trees.

They speak now only of what they lack. 

Want. 

Some nights they feel like vines coiling 

over me—not out of malice, 

but of need. 

Tonight I light a candle on the porch.

The flame wavers gold and 

everything’s transfigured: trees, shadows, 

the deep womb of my heart. 

I remember their joy. 

Mine too. 

And in the flickering candle light, something 

that feels holy returns.

This is the darkness olives need.

The cool, quiet dark that draws out

bitterness, 

that softens and sweetens. 

And preserves. 

The miracle

The little tomato plant a realtor left 

on my porch is thriving

in the bigger pot of an old orchid 

     for whom 

the clock stopped ticking

during my monthlong wandering when 

the G-son forgot to water it and 

instead drowned 

      two fake palms. 

In just a week the tomato branches burst 

upward a good inch and 

look much greener and brighter 

than that wimpy slice of life looked 

      on its arrival.

Of course this is all nature‘s 

chemistry but chemistry is such 

      a miracle.

The plant turns sun, water--thin air 

--into food, hormones 

that make the leaves grow bigger 

and all that radiance burst

into red delicious jewels. 

     What a trick!

That same trick going on in me though

 in the opposite direction. 

Every cell in my body now whispering, S.O.S! 

I didn’t imagine being a widow. 

My man knew it. Said, this will be all yours to handle alone

      some day.  

He meant these four kids. 

This large house without them and

       him. 

He didn’t wish that on me.  

But saw it coming. 

      That lightening bolt. 

I think of him at unexpected times. 

Tonight during a program about oceans 

when I hear the long moans of whales, 

not the bright notes of his trumpet 

that shriek like a dolphin rising, easy and free, 

      on the breeze.

No, the whales sing low and slow

about the end of time, about 

     their grief, wild and 

breaking silence, stalking 

     like hunger.

For Fracture Zones Exhibit

Written in response to the topographical images in Andrea Guskin’s “Fracture Zones” exhibit that features large scars deep beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean forming fracture zones. To create these images, the artist crunches, pushes, and smooths metal and then mends the fractures with threads. 

How peaceful they look in their wooden frames—

our earth stories 

written in folds—long, raw seams where 

the crust split open, where 

the earth tore itself to make 

     something new. 

Eons of cracking open and settling again 

for yet one more upheaval, 

another strange, relentless explosion

     into being. 

How humbling to know that such accidents 

and flukes, valleys ripped apart, 

such molten heavings—

all that beautiful violence

of change 

had to be exactly what it was 

     to get us here. 

These are not scars. These are records 

of becoming. 

     They are birthmarks. 

And this also is the story of the soul 

when grief and love crack us open. 

Then too the earth tilts and 

the heart splits along a fault, 

everything warm spilling out.

  

We too are stitched from rupture, 

shaped by cracking and settling

for yet one more confusing explosion 

into rebirth,

carried along on waves of chaos and 

 accidental grace. 

We too carry golden threads 

that bind 

     our broken places.

And that is our inheritance.  

The fractures we live through,

the messy, glorious breakage that 

make and remake us.

Our ground always moving 

in its deliriums. 

Because nothing is ever

     finished. 

Chasing the blues away

Watch the moon roll
down the hill
of sleepy moles
then watch it roll
into the black and silent lake.
Now watch my heart bewitched forget
the countless insults of the day
now watch the moon
lead them all away.

All the wrong role models

Tolstoy,  Michener, Dreiser,  Hollywood

—my mother

they all led me on with exuberant tales
of abnormal adventure. 

As if surviving a war were

a necessity

to a life well lived

As if just one or two lovers were

a squandering

of youth

as if each love must make you feel
as if your heart were a cliff

collapsing into the sea

as if you must wake up each day
in an ancient world capitol

and adventure about the ruins all day
as if you lived in an opera

as if the world were a stage
and you must play a part—
a part far from the middle of the road,

your heart flying right

into a typhoon's belly.

That’s how my newborn nerves

got fired up with unquenchable longings

and how they were sunk, too,

because something always weathers

every gain away

making unhappy endings—

          but the ending too must not be average—

there must be an orchestra, enemies,

          a great speech to the masses

—something you can take a final b
ow for.   

If I were God

I will think about life 

not death tonight

though I feel no ordinary light

because two friends 

now die nearby.


And here at home 

my spine knocks

against my bones 

and I regret

to mention it because 

others have it worse.


I am one who feels 

the world's violations

against people I love 

and that is most people.


I love most people.  

I love our species

and if I were God no child would suffer

in all the ways so sadly commonplace.


None would crouch and beg for mercy.

There would be no need 

for mercy, no idea of it.


No need to wash away 

what God says he cannot forgive in us,

what we are born into 

and must be punished for.


We forgive his cruelty because we are

terrified.

We are like the wife beaten 

to the floor

by the man who blames her 

for his rage.

We blame ourselves until living

feels like dying

and hope? 

It changes nothing.


We tell ourselves:  pray harder, 

bend deeper

yet God 

keeps receding.

Mood swings

This heart swings often in that garden where sad moods
keep their bloom no matter the season.

One never knows which way the wind will toss the seeds.

Some by the fence seem to thrive in those dark places
With roots that dig deeper in the soil. 

Relentless in their return.

And some teased toward the sun.
These you pluck for further study.

Wash and trim those darlings for a vase 

on the kitchen table.

Losing her mind

My retired friend chatters on the phone 

about the times we worked together.

We agree it feels very long ago.  

My friend looks fabulous for her age.  

A good decade more younger. 

Her wardrobe, makeup, manicures,

cosmetic interventions were--and are-- 

tourist attractions.  

So it shocks that she is losing her mind.  

Six times I tell her my man has died.  

And now she inquires cheerfully, 

So how’s your husband? 

I return our talk to the past she remembers still well.  

That beautiful past when my man was living 

and my friend remembered his name. 

A list poem of gratitude

 

It never occurred to me to raise crickets in a bowl just

to be serenaded every night.  

But people do that.  

The bugs sing to seduce yet keep on singing after 

every orgasm for the pure joy 

of it, I guess.  

What a world! 

I love to hear them on my evening walks but try 

not to visualize a thousand black bugs squeezing 

their hind legs together.   

How that kills my reverence!   

Tonight along the water's edge embraced 

by leafy trees of varied ethnicities, 

among them a splattering of lost marigolds.  

crickets croon to me and

a jolt of their joy rips through me.  

A jolt of privilege to walk in this lovely place 

where it is safe except for the frightened snake

& a family of raccoons rustling the brush and thistle.

My house is not in flames. 

My family not bombed. 

My son not being waterboarded.  

No army turns off my water.  

Stops the delivery of food.  

I have medicine.  

I get to go on living!

This feels like a miracle! 

Because elsewhere (you know where) 

whole families are hunted like prey.  

Even the stars above them die with less pain.

But here the oleander 

that seemed dead all winter 

is alive & abundant, well watered. 

How did I get so lucky? 

My wings rub together with the band

of crickets. 

Whom do I thank for all this?