The body shines

The body shines on the table.
Pure as a figure carved atop a tomb.

Not a tremor, not a twitch, no stirring,
eyes stay gummed shut.

Bloodless, still as stone, my husband now.

The table raised and bathed, scents
burned for sacrifice

and  a lone chair for me.

All for one purpose: to look.
The looking--and the being looked at--
this is the ceremony.

I look as would a lit candle,
the earth's wick burning down inside me,

still inside him, too, but only hot in me.

finally

finally! there's a beach
in sight

finally! against my back
a panting wind

finally! from my palms
the sand now bleeds

finally! a world of swells rush
toward me

finally! a bridge of bluffs rust
in sundown glow

finally! foam whirls
like candy floss

finally! in the glorious wake
fear floats belly up

Stray cat

Ok enough about the impermanence
we hate.

I will tell you about my cat.

The stray lost himself
one summer.

What a pushover.
Morning kibble, some stroking
and he's here for good

With gratitude that’s ferocious--
razor teeth and claws, meaning
to be playful but draws my blood.

Yet it's a comfort to be followed
by his tender eyes and eager paws.

A bounty to have my death-bound skin
licked and purred on, even if it bleeds a bit.

To know another pair of ears perk up
when there's that banging of the wind at night.

And sweet, sweet comfort to rise
from my chair in twos.

Dissolving

Here they come     again.
The long days    suddenly impaled
on    some    thorn

melting
into
one       long      shade

on my evening walk
at Lake Chabot
passing newts
passing ferns,

I stoop       for a look
for       a whiff
for     a bit of joy
and    then

a well-known cry--
I lift my eye to

a tree branch
falling to the ground--

the voice of winter,
following me around.

Nocturne

It's not what it was once:
spike heels, short dresses,
slow gulps of chardonnay.
Dark underthings, smooth rock.
A delicious guy in my room,
making our own weather.

No more of what came after:
quick and absent-minded everything.

It lasted as long as it could.

Now it's flannel PJ's with The New Yorker.
Online Scrabble and MSNBC.
Pandora with hot tub and no thoughts.

Once I was a Pelican, pouch filled with fish.
Now just a woman with nice friends,
but oh, a grandson to hug, woods to walk in.
Now it's nocturnal poetry.

Still worthy of life, indeed--still worth
begging for;
though at times,
all may seem like gibberish.

Done asking

Land of forgiveness, freedom land,
if you exist,
show me in,
let me emigrate to your realm
of balm and peace.

Allow some ease after miles of
short steps over hot sand--take me
to your mount surcease from sorrow,

from regret,

from my sins.

I could have done more.
Each day I count the ways
I might have been better.

Today I count this:
Those afternoons I leave him in
his unawares, in the palms of others
to walk the dog, to roll in water
like a log, to pour sun on me.

Let me forgive myself,
amend my life across your border.
I accept your hand of charity.

It's the instances when....

.... Coleman Hawkings
plays Man With A Horn 
in the room where my man sat
listening to Coleman Hawkings play
Man With A Horn.

Something about that tempo,
the tenor sax solo
shreds the heart into knots
of grass.

It's the instance when I hear
Bill Evans on My Foolish Heart
when above my head my man blows
his horn, one brow rising to say "hi" when
I walk by.

Something about that solitude
makes me a tiny boat tied up
inside a craggy cave of
sloshing melody.