Tag Archives: poetry

They Hold the Sea

Contagious as your hummingbird smile may be,

it is your hands…

hands that sculpt ki into a dragon’s mouth

with arcs of mother-of-pearl framing rainbow flames

that smell of warm milk and nutmeg, while your

touch draws the breath of muscle to bone,

then deeper.

Too few lines cross your hands,

large, almost too large, they hold the sea.

 

Ki–Japanese word meaning energy or life force.

Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.

Women Talking: Grahn, McGuire, diFranco

In researching other poets in preparation for the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, I’ve been especially impressed by an interview with Dawn McGuire, who is living one of the paths I would love to have lived. A neurologist, McGuire used to read her poetry with Judy Grahn, about whom ani diFranco states, “When I was nineteen I discovered the poetry of Judy Grahn, and I was so moved by “A Woman is Talking to Death“, it’s still one of my favorite poems.”

Grahn’s poem illuminates where we rise from as a people and where too many are still stuck. I don’t understand bigotry, cruelty, or a lack of empathy, but do know when someone finds a way to clearly expose it and trace its ripples. I’m relieved I couldn’t write “A Woman is Talking to Death,” because I wouldn’t want the experiences; however, I’d be grateful to write with this brilliance and power.

Mother’s Day

How she watched him turn me on the stairs, force his tongue in my nine year old mouth as she basked in the warmth of fire and merlot, and left me for weekends with his Marine Corps son though I cried, begged her not to, his crew cut head telling me to lie down, stop crying, spread my legs. And the Mother’s Day when she slapped my face, kicked my ribs, ripped the head off my doll because I was still making her gift when she woke—she screamed you worthless shit after all I’ve done these seven years. Even now I would forgive the nights from the time I was five that I pressed the cold glass of her bedroom window against my cheek while he beat her, waiting for her to tell me to run next door, call the police, forbidden to run before ordered, forced to listen to her pleas, his fist, the breaking chair. Forgive if she didn’t wish me dead or could engage in dialogue, but instead she remains three, six, twelve years old simultaneously, unwilling to approach maturity or sanity. I too have crawled the edge of madness, felt its sweet vortex as if cauterizing pain, but I keep stepping back from her outstretched arms, reaching always to pull me beside her.

Thank you to the editor of Writing Our Way Out of the Dark for first publishing this poem.

Desert Rain

      

mud seeps

between bare toes

almost naked I walk miles

soaked in desert rain

and catch it with my tongue

 

laughing as my mother

walks the balance beam of stone walls

while her husband and I point at Catalina cows

and shout Buffalo, buffalo! and she so nearsighted

believes us

 

spinning

wrists held tight as Geno soars me

round &

round

parallel to the ground

 

chimes    bells    ice cr

eam delivered by truck

treasured pink      green

yellow plastic dogs

birds

tigers buried in

chocolate strawberry vanilla to be lipped

licked

sucked away

 

curled like a sow bug

laughing

belly aching as a finger waving in air

tickles as effectively as one would

touching

 

Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.