Selected Poems

In His Sleep

J. made a sound in his sleep, sad, like

he had lost something. And he has lost things:

his mother too young, his old Kentucky home.

The sound lasted a second. He tightened his jaw.

When he sleeps I like to look at him, his long legs

like the ocean, blue jeaned, flat out.

J. sleeps best in the afternoon sun.

He looks like summer waves, if a person can.

---First appeared in Harpur Palate

Walking to Old (Japan, 1983)

I met an old woman. I watched her, hunched,

ready a space for the dead to eat

white rice in a smooth black laquer bowl. 

I suppose she slid in under me -

like the steps of our festival steps.

I met an old woman walking to the public baths,

metal basin and cloth

pressed firmly against her hip.

I suppose she slid in under me - like splendid wet heat

letting down her wrinkled skin.

I met an old woman in a striped farmer's jacket,

bent, beneath a cloth sack 

flattened down her spine.

I suppose she slid in under me - like tired bones.

Have you worked forever?

I met threee women - in passing

I suppose they slid in under me

like a road.

 ---First appeared in Red Hills Review

something about the sea

beneath your feet

the sand shifts, footprints

mark your passage

you could be followed

no one ever does

something about the sea

the gray blue range

the white noise of waves

dampens edges

(whatever they are)

makes us throw stones

launched side-armed

skipping three or

four times, if lucky.

it's a mercy of sorts.

Promise Me

You will sit on the grass

And watch the cemetery men

Come down the hillside.

You won’t be bothered

If they bump my box, you will stay,

Be last instead of them.

You will believe what you always have 

In peace and the procession of seasons

To ease the pain (what else can be said, really).

You will sit on the grass

If you aren’t already beside me

(like this morning)

Legs intertwined into mine.

I killed it

It lost focus - 

excited, or old

Either way, death smacks hard.

Its guts, red tangled in fur

hit twice

front and back wheels 

both.

The sun is brilliant

swallowing up the morning commute.

It is cold.

If I had stopped -

hovered my hands above its entrails

it would have warmed me, exhaling 

itself over the road.

—-First appeared in Soundings East

Thursday Night with My Daughter in the Emergency Room

I don't know our religious affiliation

or

when she ate lunch

her height, if she pooped yesterday

what she weighs.

I don't tell we don't always eat 

regular meals

we microwave and graze.

I know she ate chips and salsa at 4

why her socks don't match.

She doesn't know what a bowel movement is, or

how to catch her pee.

The doctor knows appendicitis is different

in kids.

Not always middle to right, but

sometimes the left side too.

She knows now that an IV 

stays in 

that it can be scary here

and the man down

the hall

is legless

yelling diddle diddle dee.

Blood, liver & heart

any part of me to her

I'd offer up.

Discharge papers take awhile.

Until we leave

we remain

 2 peas

perfectly out of place.

---First appeared in Margie