Tree swing

February 14, 2014

Tree swing

A sturdy plank of wood, coarse-grained

but smooth to the touch. A thick rope wrapped

several times around a tree branch, twenty feet up,

two strands snaking down to loop through holes bored

in either side of the plank, knotted and tied up,

secured with a metal figure-eight.

I loved to shimmy up the rope,

inching up and up, past

the half-way mark where the two cords

twined together, up

until I could touch the rough oak bark.

You could have someone spin you, sitting,

and the cabled rope would twist and bunch up

until you were high off the ground, and then

they’d let go, the world spiraling into a kaleidoscope blur

as you sat tight curled up on the swing, and after, to prove

you weren’t dizzy, even when the world swam drunkenly

before your eyes, you would walk the edge

of the driveway, tightrope-style,

one foot at a time, perfectly straight.

Holding onto the back of the swing,
the grown-ups were strong enough

to run forward and push you over their heads,

sending you in long gliding strokes

back and forth. Once, my younger cousin

overwhelmed by the rush of exhilaration,

the height, the speed, let go.

           

                                    He flew

for one breathtaking,

heart-dropping moment,

his little body cutting all ties

to the ground, hurtling

through the air

like a stone

or satellite.

Annadale

February 11, 2014

Annadale

In the town where I grew up,

in the gray, green-shuttered house, our yard

teemed with crocuses in the spring.

Like spearheads or neat rows

of pale pointed teeth, greedy fingers

digging up through soil and snow,

heads of scepters, regal crocuses,

sprouting in unmistakable, glossy,

royal colors—pure eggshell, deep yellow,

lavender and violet—petals growing

thick with secrets, until finally unfolding like dawn

breaking, hungry flower mouths opening

wide. I would tuck the thin,

waxy stems behind my ears as charms against evil,

or make the blossoms a crown and become

the Faerie Queen of Annadale, barefoot and wild,

breath like magic blooming in my chest

as I commanded swarms of pixies and sprites

against the shadows of snap-dragons,

fighting and dancing until falling back

breathless, glowing in the late sunlight, my arms

outstretched, my hands turned skyward,

my toes curling in the cool grass.

And even now in these winter days, these waiting days,

days that wear gray skies and thin light,

I test the air, and watch the ground,

listen for the distant drumming:

the sign that the world is once again

on the cusp of crocuses.

October

September 16, 2012

October

Day

breaks, and suddenly

the sky erupts in blue, as if

it’s the first sky, as if

the earth died and was reborn

in its sleep.

I breathe in the dry, volcanic blue

and its embers ignite my lungs,

blazing through my bones, and my body

aches to feel the wind through its fingers,

the sunlight coursing through its veins.

My feet slap the hard ground, my

limbs stretch and lengthen,

muscles burning with this

young fire as I

run and run and run

and remember the world:

raw and new and alive.

better than bitter

December 7, 2011

better than bitter

hissing, spitting, the wind takes my hair in fingers

that are like yours except much, much more

harsh.  damn.  I took a walk to clear my head, but

all I can think about is you, you, you, and how I’m going to have to write

some really bad poetry.  these trite phrases keep beating

in my head like the ticking of clocks, a metronome to my own

insomnia – I hammer the same old words into place,

trying to find the right angles, like leaves against the wind

in a storm, but somehow everything comes out in a snowy

slush.  I miss your run-on sentences, your definitions

of words that don’t exist.  I want to say something

that’s as lovely as you are, something as real as rays of moonlight

spilling out onto wet asphalt.  I want to write

things that are barebacked and blackened

like church steeples and treble clefs.  but now,

I am famine-struck, and

    red as hunger.

april

February 23, 2011

april

there’s something to be said

for the first glimpse

of raw, wild green

after endless months

of sick, chalky white,

for warm crayon-box colors:

the dandelion sun, the robin’s egg sky,

for the first sharp, biting breath

of a spring rain

as the frozen rivers dissolve

into a magical confusion

and rush,

for the rainbows on soap bubbles,

for the graceful arc of a red swing,

and for the chaotic ballet

my heart performs

whenever you throw me a smile.