Two sides.
Every leaf,
sun in shadow,
green on green,
the half-light end of day
drips to darkness.
Heavy-wet and reluctant,
water under a paddle,
resistant to what inevitably comes
silent and stealthy,
a full-on cacophony,
hard put to
let go.
the night is darker by the day, and the
multiplying stars the consolation prize for the
stiffness in my back, the tightness in my legs,
my old scars.
unrecognized like Cuba,
reminding me of what I’ve known all along.
Homeland Security should hire the Title9 Frog Bra to work in Gitmo.
under pressure my breasts tell everything.
I am eating historical romance like Chex Mix,
digging for chocolate; ignoring the pretzels.
Nonsensical sexual physics is of no consequence.
A little bit Moulan Rouge -funny.
Now that I mention it,
I am wanting a chocolatier truffle that tastes like a kaleidoscope;
still I know months like these I take the flat-orange flavored Kit Kat I can get.
The near-week of hog wild thundering goddamnitalltohellIknowwhatIwant
screaming from every cell has been reckless.
It slams into my gut
and turns me into wreckage and once I am weakened
hormonal abandonment taking unlatched-metal-barn-door-in-a-windstorm
swings at me.
I wake up leaking blood.
headed quickly toward empty.
a warning light comes on
but pages of bastard children
sired on willing women
by randy men are impotent after all.
L’Chaim. Zochrenu.
I set aside my romance novels
and bad chocolate
and lie here bleeding.
jagged cliff gripping to air
over the dry riverbed
a beginning
made for water
not by it.
mother wisdom
voicing truth
in clouds
licking their
right names into the rock.
the eye of the needle
an opening in the doorposts
back embracing the cool of rock
feet flat against the blackberry cliff.
the dizzying whir of height and air
whispered memory of the security
of a perch between
a rock
and a
hard place.
the white of the sky is nothing but clouds and turkey vultures
voicing their dominion
or at least reminding us that they are the hosts
and we the visitors, but
we are not here to know the sky.
some say the devil is in these cliffs,
afraid of being known,
persuading it is better you go back to
the needling whir of cars and computers, but
we are not here to know the devil.
my fingers lick the crevice of the cliff
with the wisdom of whirls and ridges,
seeking truth in rock
face pressed against the clammy stone.
I breathe the scent of time like
a mother’s skin
a cloud of memory and
the intimacy of one murmuring voice
no more still than the trickle of water dancing down the cracks
beckoning to be known.
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