Distance

September 11, 2012

distance

Consider

the space between the gull

and the sea, its separate levels:

here the disparate mist,

still cold and white despite

the sun’s heat, a chilly rainbow or two;

here nothing but air and particles

of dust, floating in the currents; and here

other seabirds, swooping and calling

in scattered swarms,

and the one gull,

apart, eyeing the horizon

or the sand, until,

diving downward, crossing through

air and dust and sunlight and water,

it makes the tiniest of splashes

as the open beak touches the waves,

and emerges, and soars back up.

I consider

the golden-red stain of this October, and how

the leaves in free-fall drift along rivers,

tracing the miles between here

and there, as I, with hands

and feet, slowly pantomime

whatever I’m asked to

without you.

I long for the kind of moment

when the night sky is streaked with rain,

the stars like ocean spray: a moment when

two strangers walk past each other, and one

decides to smile.

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.

boardwalk

November 8, 2010

boardwalk

at night,

seagulls ride like embers above bright white

roller-coaster fire. 

the people on the ground don’t look where they’re going because

there are too many mesmerizing

lights

littered about like sunspots.

and the people,

they pretend that they’ve not yet been

blinded as they count the money

still left in their

tight hands. 

the shops are all full of things

that they’ve always wanted, and the

vendors with their sharp wolf eyes watch

with smiles that everyone else takes for

happiness. 

the people on the rocket rides scream

like the seagulls burning above them. 

regarding the man from the Congo

November 8, 2010

regarding the man from the Congo named Fabrice Ilunga who came into our classroom, sat at one of our laminated desks, and told us about his country with a soft, uncanny smile

ebonized eyes and

long fingers linger on

the small handout

in front of him. 

a keen gaze and such smooth skin,

he begins to speak

with quiet words as pale yellow

as his palms.

his small hesitations,

he remembers civil wars and

corruption and places like

Kinshasa.

he knows five languages

and the definition of

injustice

in all of them.

it’s a country of diamonds and gold,

he tells us. 

but it all goes out

and doesn’t come back. 

his laugh is deep and

throaty and real as Mrs. Jones

makes a joke about infrastructure

or electricity. 

it’s difficult to get things done,

he tells us,

if everyone works independently.

and they do.

here in our little classroom,

none of us really get it, because

we’re still staring into space,

or worse, at maps. 

the bell rings

and the class ends;

as we walk away,

he shakes our hands.

for a moment before we part,

my fingers slip smoothly through his,

as though they were piano keys. 

dandelion sun - a tribute to my bad memory

May 26, 2010

dandelion sun – a tribute to my bad memory

the halogen lights act like lightning

and shock me. 

I caught that tiger

by its tail,

but then someone forgot

that we're not to slam the doors

and I lost it. 

catch-as-catch-can, I suppose.

oh, and please don’t touch that,

yes,

that right

there,

the poem

next

to my

fingers.

but you go ahead,

and I’ll let you,

because I’m too content to lose

this papercut war. 

my innate sycophancy

manifests itself

in the shape of

sphinxes and

stained-glass and

other daydreams,

and maybe someday I’ll remember the way my

metaphors didn’t used to fall apart.

the blue that I saw today

was blinding, like a full moon,

and as deep as thunder,

and as far as I know,

we’ll hit the ground only running. 

I noticed something:

you look even skinnier without your smile.

Skyes, Blu

April 14, 2010

Skyes, Blu

Blu Skyes never cared to be known. 

My name should be Icarus, she said, tripping her pen onto the sidewalk below.  She leapt down from the tree at a height that would have made most people’s bones rattle in their skin. 

I stepped lightly to the ground from the bottommost branch.  “What do you mean?” 

He was such a failure, she replied. 

I wanted to tell her, “You’re no failure,” but all I said was, “I have to go.” 

Blu would have drowned the kittens of the Cheshire cat not because they would’ve died anyway, but because she would have been jealous. 

She and I were in some garden when she said, Reach me a rose, will you?  Their stems remind me of love and The Great Gatsby. 

“We all live in somebody’s future, Blu,” I told her. 

But I worry about the ones whose pasts we have already abused.   

If you were glass or if you were stone, Blu would rub you smooth, and you would shine.  Me, she never touched. 

The train lumbered along like some subterranean beast as we waited to cross the tracks. 

False face must hide what the false heart doth know, she quoted.  That’s Shakespeare.

I wanted to ask, “What have you done that you need to hide?” but I could only nod and add, “Macbeth.” 

What happened to those blueberry eyes, Blu Skyes?  That raspberry smile?  Did your faith take them with her when she left?  Or was it just a matter of time?

She skipped stones in the brook as I sat and watched.  Far too similar are kites and cranes.  Far too different are birds and planes. 

If I had had the courage, I would have demanded, “Tell me what you mean!  I may not understand, but at least I can try.”  Instead, “Who came up with that one?”

For once, her eyes were not wasps, but water. Her voice was not ruthless, but soft, soft, soft. I did.  

It was a sea that threatened her.  I had always stood with her, always ankle deep, but always behind her, and she would never know. 

I pictured us tightrope-walking along the thin line of our hopes in the dying sunlight.  If I ever glanced down, Blu would whisper, Don’t look at it too long, or you’ll realize it doesn’t exist.

If I were brave, I would have dared those spider-web dreams to disappear.  If I were brave, I would have pieced us back together if we fell.  If I were brave, I would have spoken up whenever I had had something to say.  If I were brave, I would have done what Daedalus never could.

I would have saved us both.

wake

November 29, 2009

wake

i.

there is a girl

in the dark water

in a pale dress.

she is dreaming

about me.

i surround her;

i am the water

that contains her.

her eyes are closed,

but she smiles.

ii.

they

stare upward.

their eyes are colorless

as they look upon

a sky

so full of crocodile tears.

it rains stars

and all we do

is watch

and watch.

iii.

you see a lily,

i see a rose.

which of us is right?

iv.

these are the borderlands.

i float between them.

i rock in a gentle current.

suddenly

i am the girl i dreamed of,

the one who,

in my dream,

had dreamed of me.

i’m sure

you can see this

alice-in-wonderland circle.

so can i.

but that doesn’t make me sure

that i will ever

wake.

even-ing musing

November 21, 2009

even-ing musing

i.

I felt like snow today.

the weather disagreed, and I inquired the reason.

I’m not sad enough, it confided.

but why do you have to be sad to feel like snow?

that’s just the way it is, replied the weather.

that’s how it works.

funny.

I felt like snow, but I wasn't sad at all.

ii.

it makes me smile,

this time,

the even-ing of the day,

when the clarity of the sky

and the silhouette trees

make it look like it could be sunrise,

but it’s not.

           

like something you meant to say,

or words on the tip of your tongue:

it’s the self-same phenomenon.

           

iii.

I often long

to go out

and chase the moon. 

           

maybe,

this time,

if I weave together

enough cross-hatched

shooting stars,

I can toss a celestial net

into the darkness

and keep for myself

this feeling of twilight.

           

maybe I’ll try it again
          tomorrow. 

ocean of mine

April 21, 2009

ocean of mine

I know your face well, dark ocean of mine.

I know the touch of your waves against me.

I remember when I wanted to memorize you,

your swirling blue-green, your translucent shore,

until I could paint your image with closed eyes.

that was long, long ago,

before sweet caress turned to harsh embrace;

before loving care became possession.

your colors churn as I approach;

as I traipse across the bone-white sand,

your monstrous roar has already encased my ears.

your cold seascape seems to be ever-present in my view.

today, even the sunlight reflecting on you

looks hard-edged and cruel.

but this is how you call to me;

you know very well how to entice.

even now, I am drawn to your sound, your smell, your sight.

somehow, I cannot resist you

when you beckon like that,

as if my feet still long to tread in your icy water.

I am at your edge now;

I cannot bring myself to hesitate.

I see you grin as I submit, one step, then another.

you rise up; you bring me down.

my lips still curved in a smile.