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.