On Sundays

I am in the mid-morning sunlight with my grandmother beneath her magnolia tree.  The flowers of spring have just opened after a soft rain and a warm night.  My sister plays nearby  in the yard, searching for toads hidden in the wet grass as my grandmother frets over the life of the blossoms.  She always worries that the blooms come too soon or too late or that a windy day will take them from her, sending the white petals floating down 7^th Street.  She worries about wilting heat or nipping frost in the air.  As she studies each infant flower, some of them still teasing their way out of round buds, I study her.  My grandmother’s form is mirrored in the curved branches of the tree.  I pray my hair turns the same silver, soft as down feathers, and my worries are as weightless as the petals on her mind.  The sun distills lacy light through the canopy of leaves that covers the ground and us.  She stands…

steady and silent

with her hand in her pockets

watching her tree grow

On a Hot Day

He pinches his wife’s skin

touching her salt to his tongue

to cut the bitterness of his words.

Light bouncing off the sun tea stuns her

momentarily as she fondles

an ice cube pendant dripping

down the nape of her neck

as she imagines wringing her shirt

into a jar, wishing she would have

pickled his last morning kiss- 1966.

She trips the sprinkler for the kids.

He nods off, swatting away snores like flies.

She speaks, Shhh…now we whisper…

And her children learn the language

of the sea and the rhythm of waves

in the chk chk chk spraying out seconds.

The young ones poke at drowned anthills

and buoyed sweet gum balls

in puddles of a sodded corner lot.

Their feet, sandy with mud

and wet with tar from the bubbling street

Thoughts During a Bottle of Wine

Leather, cigar box, lead pencil, tar –

relics left buried that surface

through roots to the fruit of ancient vines

so old and deep the first winemakers

built their vineyards around them

not daring to disturb the earth,

ash, and kerosene of their plots.

The Rhone’s blistering winds

pound black pepper and spice

into thick skins that timidly soften

to the sun, the heat coaxing from their core

jam and chocolate --

buried valentines that refuse to be forgotten

in the stony soil, churned into dirt

and expressed in tannins

thick enough to chew.

Terrior

I thought of cutting my limbs

to see the rings of my age

for proof that the weight I feel

is of many lifetimes beyond the one I know.

I wanted to see the fire of wars

and drought of my seasons

scarred in fibrous circles

surrounding my bones,

plotting a history of moments

made of breath and growth

in a thick skin.

I thought of peeling back my layers

to see the scaffolding of my ancestors

around which my form is molded.

I wanted to find each face of my origin

become more evident

as I slough translucence

from the surface where I finally find

the first one of us within me,

hair darker and yes wider

than my diluted image.

I thought of drinking by blood

to taste the sun-dried soil fed through my veins

from earth I never touched but crave

to sift through my fingers

I wanted to detect hints

of residual pencil shavings and tobacco

from writers and smokers of my bloodline

that are concentrated in me

and seem to linger like the finish on a Cabernet

Series of Haiku

Each of my father’s

Italian Uncles wore hats

while grilling sausage

***

New Zealand wine rolls

over my tongue tasting like

wet stones and kiwi

***

My husband’s birthmark

is the size of my thumbprint

and soft as Lamb’s Ear

*************

Roses for my grandma

and my grandfather’s mistress

on the same receipt

**************

Fried chicken feather

the day of his funeral

spoils my appetite

***************

She confuses hours

A.m. or p.m.?  she thinks

and then makes breakfast

A Passing Thought

A crack in my windshield reaches 40 MPH over the speedometer

The webbed impact point indicates where the rock came out of nowhere,

landing between the point of swerve and scream.

My life does not flash before my eyes.  I instead imagine my police report:

Woman dies in Toyota.  Cause of accident thought to be loud pebble.

I could see my fiancé with a regretful heart—the vanished promise of a young wife and dinner plans. 

It would be weeks before he could be with another woman.

My mother, grief-stricken in her living room, gazes at the white box containing 

my unworn wedding gown that she wished was whiter than the ivory I chose.

The still-functioning part of her frontal lobe wonders if she could still get her money back.

The tragedy of things.

I do not think of my father.

I do not think of my sister.

I think only of my mom and my darling and how stupid it is to be panicked over such a small thing

as a rock.

Colorado Road Trip

We were losing ourselves in the mountains of Colorado, racing along the winding roads in our black Toyota.  The snow-capped peaks wore the clouds like halos and seemed to change form as we wrapped around them.  The tufts of snow tucked away on the hills injected the spring air with an icy chill that enlivened our senses and got our blood pumping once again after a sleepy, Midwestern winter. The Limber Pines showed deep and green with their heavy branches brushing against the soft tips of the new grass.  The fuzzy-antlered elk fed on wild flowers next to a restaurant’s roadside, Conestoga billboard, and we slowed our pace

arms out the window

our hands making tall wavelengths

in the Aspen air

***Title YTBD. Enjoy...

Pin, a name which the young man had unintentionally given himself, awoke exactly two minutes before his 6 a.m. alarm sounded only to look down and find his usually pristine white sheets muddied with red clay from his baseball cleats. His belly button was sore, but the sweet song still whispered in his ears. And the electricity he felt when she gazed at him across the candlelight still tickled his fingertips. He thought about Toaster; he thought about Amelia; A single tear formed as he thought of Marigold. Pin was careful to remove his shoes and calculatingly throw them onto his kitchen's tiled floor before alighting his twin bed and heading for the shower where he would once again make his transformation.

Mr. Pinneford stared into his bathroom mirror while being soothed by the buzzing of a halogen light. He tried to count his pores before carefully plucking each gray sprout from his head of black hair and placing them in a neat row onto the white sink where they would vanish. He would contemplate not brushing his teeth today, but as always, proceeded to brush and floss and feel utterly content afterward as a result of following through with this simple hygienic task. Mr. Pinneford bared his teeth with an empty smile and headed for the bedroom closet to get dressed for the day. He reached for a single pair of black leather shoes that sat neatly to the left of a large cluster of repurposed footwear. Hiking boots, climbing shoes, slippers, sneakers, flip-flops, rain boots: they had all served their purpose at one time or another but would not be needed today. He buttoned his heavily starched shirt and tucked it into his pleated black pants before clasping his belt and choosing a tie. His place of employment had done away with the formality of neckties, but Mr. Pinneford preferred them, and the simple pleasure he found in choosing which one to wear was a high point of his day.

Upon Waking

My chin presses against his chest.
I look up to his eyes knowing
that when I can't sleep in his bed
his shirt will have to do.
His sweaty palms like a slug
slide from my jaw line to my collarbone
when he holds me like I'll break
and I am pale as porcelain.
His shower smell is dandruff shampoo
a sprig of rosemary
or the color green.
For a moment
I pretend we're perfect strangers
so he can make a good first impression
by recklessly tossing out song lyrics
that he prays I'll recognize.
I swallow his words, choking them down.
They float in a sea of me
crumpled into a swing-top, blue bottle
where I keep secrets
my imagination
last kisses
and repressed memories of his morning breath.

Snuffy

Sometimes I think about my dead grandfather.
I don't remember him well
but I do know that his eyes were the color of steel
and that he looked hollow the night before he died.
Now I wonder if he sees me from the grave
when I back-date my checks
or lie to sweet boys.
My grandmother made him Catholic
so sometimes he and I nod off together in church
and take too much wine
before we sign and grin like the oldest of children
as we walk back to the pew.
I wonder if my sister wonders about him.
They didn't know each other
but I think he sees her trying to put on makeup.
And I think he sits with my grandmother
when she remembers what it was like to dance.

A Glass

A culmination of Brazilian suns sits in her glass
as ice swirls in a whirlpool of stirs,
seeping out the sides
and melting into a puddle
that could flood a thousand nights
or stain the sleeves of the careless.
Glass clinks like a hundred bangles dangling
at the end of her slender wrist.
She wears the whiskey to match her shoes.


Its glow is as orange as her grandmother's ottoman
or a West Coast see-through tan
and lights the tip of her nose
sip after sip. . .
And the drink smells of the attic
where she was once a damsel
and is rescued only by last call.

The taste makes her cringe like
an old sailor getting a fresh tattoo.
She slams the glass onto the ancient, wooden tables
"Checkmate."
And the black and white tiles swallow her
as she sinks to the ground
when the lights turn up.