Sea otters

March 1, 2014

Sea otters

Sometimes at night I like to pretend

that you and I are sea otters.

We float on our backs

on the surface of bed sheets,

holding hands as we drift off to sleep

so the night-currents

don’t sweep us away.

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.

The Meridian

June 10, 2012

The Meridian

To me, we could be lost at sea, with only the illusion

of land in the distance. The shades of water meaning

nothing to me, I saw only dangerous colors

of unknown depths and darkening clouds. The light

above our sails began to fade away as wave after wave

rose up, close, close beside us; I thought of what a fool

I was, knowing nothing about a storm. But the sky could not fool

my father, who pulled taut the lines as though the clouds were an illusion,

the darkness nothing more than a trick of the mind, and the waves

just the water’s joke. Somehow he understood the meaning

of the seagulls flying above us, knew we had time before the light

disappeared, before the lake put on a foamy dress the color

of midnight, and of stars. My father’s eyes were the same color

as a clear sky in June, and as the sun shone on the water like fool’s

gold, I watched his gaze, navigating our way like a seabird. The last of the sunlight

sparkled on the spray and on the thick, wet ropes, creating illusions

of rainbows. But my father’s corded arms and tough hands knew the meaning

of a hard day’s work, and I knew that no matter how the waves

grew, we would be safe. And sure enough, a buoy rocked and waved

just within sight, a beacon pointing us home, its bright red color

a happy change from the never-ending seascape, a sign meaning

we were close. The dark storm behind our sails, however, would not be outfooled

by the likes of us – the gusts of wind grew strong and fast, sweeping away any illusion

of escape, making the sails billow and snap. As the light

faded into gray, we could just see, on the distant buoy, a seagull had alighted.

Then the storm struck, its heavy rain lashing at us, its wind tossing us about, its waves

crashing into the hull of our sailboat. But once again, the illusion

of the lake did not frighten my father. His face was the strong, solid color

of determination, his jaw set in the effort to evade the inevitable, to fool

fate. I yelled to him through the rain and wind, meaning

to help, if I could. But he looked back at me calmly, and I knew the meaning

of his gaze: the Meridian was my father’s boat, even in light

of this storm’s power. It was his, so he would protect it, no matter the wind or the waves

that faced him. The storm struggled on, but so did he, and soon the harbor was no illusion

to be chased away by a howling gust. I looked back at the water, and perhaps I’m a fool

for thinking so, but it seemed that this was the way my father saw it – its colors

all wild and alive, the meanings of the waves

clear and lovely. Way up through the storm clouds, the sky was the light color

of a gull’s wing; not even a fool could think that this beauty was an illusion.

I want to wake up early with you

April 10, 2012

I want to wake up early with you and walk through the morning village

Dew like silver on the black bridge,

a silent fog on the water, a canopy

softening bare silhouettes along the canal.

The sky, blue-grey,

still sleeping in a warm bed, in a room

where the cold clings to the curtains and walls,

a house with a dark, creaking floor,

the air heavy from a long winter’s night.

Four birds in the distance,

barely separate,

move through the morning and

                                             drift away.

Because I'm not careful

April 30, 2011

Because I’m not careful

i.

I used to sit and wonder why

the sensitive shadows of the leaves

didn’t correspond to the watery movements

of my hands.

I would have to hide my tapping fingers

because to him, they meant impatience

instead of piano concertos. 

But I picked up these burdens

as if they were those cold, beautiful

Venetian streets

in February. 

ii.

The blackbirds patrol the edge of Lake Ontario.

They navigate the air currents like whitewater rapids,

shuddering against the wind the way you might have,

holding someone’s hand

and walking with her script in your pocket.

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.

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.

dream

March 9, 2008

dream

pale hair,
pale skin,

invisible in
the pale snow,

nearly blinding
under the moon,

a glint of silver,
a flicked fish's tail

in a deep blue where
the cold never fades,

and the night-water
crushes against

my bare emptiness