Poetry

Their wisdom seals the walls
of purple, red and blue,
nurturing with grace
a space to find God.
Come, immerse yourself in the Spirit
connect the mind and body.
In a little while you’ll find
what you’re looking for.

The hanging mandala in the vestibule
paints the woman
ringed with today’s doubting,
(the house won’t sell, the job won’t come)
fear of what she needs
and what tears at her sleeves every day.
Maybe she’s lost in the deep caverns,
searching for a way out. She forgot faith
carries a bright torch and the Divine
holds her hand in the dark.

She doesn’t know how to fix
what’s broken,
but she wants to listen,
find a safe spot for an hour or two
where no one calls her when they can’t find
their keys. She wants to return
to that dream where she knows
her answers come from her
wisdom and intuition.
They never abandoned her.

Come, let me gather you
in the periwinkle sanctuary,
the smell of candle wax
quickly loosens the vise of work and home.
Release the physical,
feel the magical
of what you can’t see, and what you
breathe in and breathe out inside.

 ***

She flew away from France the first time
before anyone knew about the Beatles.
Pressing her St. Christopher against her plaid shirtdress,
gin on her breath, my mother listened
to the props slicing through foggy air
thick like tongues.

On one side of the gold face
Christ and Christopher,
his Hercules-powered arms encircle the infant
halo-bound, they both cross the river.

A flip of the talisman reveals
two Ferraris blazing under Mont Agel
as a sailboat plays in the Port of Hercules.
Christ is the front car, backed by Christopher
who relies on His wake and instinct
on the steep Monaco curves.

This medal, my inheritance, cool
next to my pale child skin
on the Boeing 747 to Paris,
my French grandmother kissed me with it
on my fourth birthday.

I must keep this necklace secured
in a leather box under my twin bed with my
other nice jewelry,
but now the chain is tucked into my sailor-striped top,
not to get snagged or stolen.

I rely on my mother to navigate
customs. She fills the air with d’accord, merci and s’il vous plait,
polite words to match her burnt orange skirted suit she
bought expressly for this trip. She never sleeps.

Maybe St. Christopher staves away
delays and cancellations,
crashes, hijackings, and water landings,
but not her mother and sister she’ll soon see.

I feel her blackness but I can’t patch
her love and loathing like the silver squares on the TWA’s wing,
or help her cross her bottomless river.
I never hold my mother’s hand.

***

The baby’s pink sock is between
a hard place and a clock
without a second hand.
She squints at the space
the swirled bears make
every time her older brother twirls
the five puckered colored
charms into fans.

She knows he’s silly
since he never
looks before he leaps
into the chocolate milk
he stirs into mounds.

I’m their mother who earns pink tickets
after blue lights and sirens flash
when I forget haste makes waste.
Do I want to leap over a cliff
or shout to the clouds when he
says, “Just like the other time, Mommy”?

Yeah, I put all my eggs in one basket
full of needles and blackberries,
cream and sand,
lollipop licks and middle-aged bananas.
Easter’s not too early this year
since I need more green and second chances.

***

Red is a wrong stove burner
left on while I do dishes,
check e-mail and feed my son carrots and cereal.
Red is my hair, feet and ankles after a two-mile run.
I can’t shake the inflamed blush for hours.
Red is my four-year-old son’s energy
that scratches and tears through
the curtain of his day.

Red is a rash on my back that won’t heal,
red is the inside of my lip
after kissing you on the night before our wedding.
Red is wax pooling in three mounds
on our new beige carpet.
The thick candles a promise,
consuming space on our dresser,
their flames flicker & die
to the ceiling fan’s metronome above our bed.

Red is my December birthday surprise
& Christmas wrap all over the living room floor,
wicker and plastic trash cans close to exploding.
Red is the seven-week-old life dripping out
of me on the bathroom tile —
she was our Scorpio daughter.

***

Published in Spring/Summer 2008 Issue, Main Street Rag
Carport Carpenter

My hands scarred below the knuckles,
thumb nails split,
yellow like old caulk at the nailbed.
A thin circle on the left hand,
tanned reminder of a tossed commitment.

I build a carport in suburban D.C.
for a one car, four-person family
where the summers suck vacuumed humidity
& the winters ice glass roads.

Now to cut the wood, sand the planks,
measure with a ruler.
My tool belt bangs against my hip
as I wrestle fickle nails with torn flesh.
My body is a ‘78 Chevy El Camino,
pewter blue, silver rails along the bed,
creaky on turns with shitty acceleration on entry ramps.
I wonder myself how I smoke and work,
but I have strong teeth and don’t need an ashtray.

***

(For Billy Collins)

You are the coffee mug and the honey,
the wax and the sponge,
and the pink roses blushing against our house.
You are the laundry folder, the trash collector,
the dishwasher, and the Barbecue King.
However, you are not the mop,
the vacuum cleaner or the Fantastik.
You are certainly not the water
running down our tap into my used Dasani bottle.

It is possible you are the old ice cubes
in our freezer. Maybe you’re even the
Tupperware containers tumbling
on the floor every other day.
Perhaps you resemble the pear trees
in our front yard, but not quite.

Not quite.

Speaking on the plentiful imagery of the domestic world,
I am the sound of coffee brewing at 6:30 am on Monday.
I also am the soft eggs
you break in the metal bowl,
the milk you taste in your coffee
and the lemon you bisect for your evening tea.
I am also the glass vase, the dish towels,
and the ironing board.
But don’t worry,
I am not the coffee mug and the honey,
nor the roses that bloom for a few days.
You must always be the rose I place in my vase.

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