BAD DREAM
the night was hard work, dreaming,
the strangers in the house
stain the air. I was going to be
abandoned. I could tell and finding
my crystal beads tossed on the
floor, apt to be cracked, turned to
rose dust didn’t help. Or the man who
seems an intrusion stinking up the
bathroom. Before I slept, I was
appalled I had forgotten my Abyssinian
cat’s birthday two days ago though
I remember it was the date Harper and
Row took my book. Was I the cat,
abandoned in my Sunday depression
though I always remember my cat before
her died Feb 11, 2002. The guests
seem oblivious to me, they are cocky,
the singy, touching types. I wanted out,
to get out before I was abandoned.
Then I wake up shaking, horrified thinking
it’s never been so long since I talked
with my mother. And then, like the
man with Alzheimer’s, going thru his
daughter’s death each time he sees
her in her coffin, remembering, awake
I can’t go to see my mother,
she’s dead
HIGH HEELS
They’re like wanting to
keep a man, keep one
on ice for sometime
later, there like a dress
3 sizes too small I know
I’ll slide into. Hell, I
could wear it now and
let it hug my ass so tight
you’ll want to tear if
off me. In two houses:
boots under the bed, S
& M boots one English
professor called them,
boots that tilt my pelvis
forward, toward you. I
want to strut thru Dupont
Circle, black boots a
dominatrix might wear,
stab heels you’d have to
be afraid of me in. My
mother wore spike heels
into her 70’s, up Beacon
Hill and over at least one
man’s heard who still
saw her as twenty. When
I’ll put those boots on
you’ll never believe I was
not always in shape. I’ll
out strut any Barbarella
or Barbie. Men in cars
will run into each other,
the legs the last thing to go
and I’m not ready yet
for any one way ticket
BOOTS LIKE LOVE
I remember those first ones,
tall and dark, you know the
kind. My o la la boots one
teacher said. One cat wanted
to make them his own. I’ve
had so many since then:
spike heel boots I could
never run from danger in,
platform boots that made my
legs seem twice as tall as they
are. One TV producer asked
me to pull them out from
under the bed since I talked
about boots in another
poem (and tho I’ve also
talked of men, that wasn’t
possible naturally) Some
boots have snagged favorite
dresses, torn velvet like
men but in them, I feel I can
have any man, that they will
all imagine me with them
in only these boots
THE GERANIUM
I am going to stop thinking
of the I’m sure dead geranium.
I know it’s come back, like
a love you want to keep on
with since it seems there’s
been so much you’ve been thru
together. The wild red flame
flowers, even before any
buildings burned, before any
thing burned in me so wildly.
It’s only a plant, not some
one dying in a colorless
hospital room, their body
enough like a flower in water
that already smells. I kept
this flower going like an affair
I put too much in to leave.
And now I’m left with
what’s dead
THE POEM I WOULD NEVER WRITE
spreads itself over my
lap on the train like a
child too big to fit
comfortably who insists
I am part of his skin.
This poem is like no
poem I’d chose for a
magazine or anthology,
it’s not a poem I want
to read but said I would.
An interesting title but
I’m not pulled in by the
first line. But this poem
is one enough others
love to lure me to want
to know why, try to
figure what I’m thinking,
try to figure out what
this poem is about. I
read the first 4 lines 7
times and all I know
is there are many adverbs,
that something has fallen
and if I didn’t know
better, it sounds like
something to do with
sex, alone-sex of some
thing different. Now, if
this was Icarus, I’d
have an idea, a peg. But
aliens, phosphorescence
and jester swirl thru the
poem my lover says
must be computer
generated. But others
find clues, a way, I wail,
someone standing in
front of a store front
window, the doors are
locked on and even if open,
no words, no money
ON TRYING TO LIKE A POEM I
DON’T UNDERSTAND
the title seems clear
enough tho even after
7 readings, I’m not
sure what it mans.
Somehow, there are
boys and grasshoppers
and capitals in the
middle of a line.
Someone not there
is wanting something
so much he could do
anything to get it.
Adjectives and
jesters stud the poem
somebody must have
understood to give
it a prize. Somebody
in the poem is having
nightmares. Or they
could be dreams. In
fact, every image in the
poem could be what
ever you want it to be
IN THIS OLD NOTEBOOK
in the middle of what I
thought were unused
pages: the name of my
ex-husband’s daughter:
a beauty, dark with a
name I might have
chosen but startling on
a class list she signed,
a workshop writing
about war. I want to be
poet like you she grinned
at break, her father’s
worst nightmare. I think
of what I’ve said about
him in books, how he
saw me as some mare who
wouldn’t take the bit,
wouldn’t jump. But
that’s a lie. I was the
one lunging for his ankles
out the door like a thrown
rider in reins, skin as
rubbed raw, deep rose
as her name or
sign in. In the book
her name was Rachel.
She didn’t look like him.
She didn’t pay
THRU THE LINES N THE PAGE
her name, my ex
husband’s daughter,
she could have been
half mine. I suppose
Raven could have
been her name, or
Rebecca for the dark
haired girl-woman in
Ivanhoe. I was caught,
mid sentence, teaching,
her name a gun tho
a jeweled one. A
beauty. But her last
name was barbwire,
the class room a stall
the barnwood was
dissolving in. I was
cantering back 20, 25
years. Who I kept
trying to tell myself,
only 4 hours left. I
reined in panic and
weird loss, masks a
hot walker as my
heart slowed down
GREEN FRINGE
each day, pale
green camouflages
branches, a lace
birds soon
could nest in.
Only the late
maple’s bare,
Christmas lights
dangling. Some
where the beaver
is plotting, geese
nest in tall grass.
Think of 3 things
to be happy for
he said, I’ll
call at noon
to check
ROSE LACE
only the few days,
then, vanishing
a cat burglar
knowing what’s
to lose, illusions.
All the branches
flooding of
the roses, wild
plum. Actually
they’re more like
the lover turning
my face their
color so we’ll
blur, looking
over my rings,
even my fillings.
Each year he’s
there and then he
isn’t, got his eyes
on my diamond
heart beat, be
tween my lips.
Shouldn’t I know
by now?
TOO LATE FOR THE PALEST
BLOSSOMS
pale rouge behind the
pines, pear lace. Enormous
boughs of deep rose
camouflage the swath
of violets
deep as is eyes. A
lie. They were brown,
dark ovals I thought I could
not imagine having in
my life, like hers
that August Hospice
nurses said always wanted
to see more, that she
was starved
nothing could fill her
WHAT I HOPE IS A LAST TAKE ON
A POET WHOSE WORDS ONLY OBFUSCATE
I think I’ve got it: not
what jesters and wet
buttons have to do with
much besides decorating
a baby’s room and not
the sweets you put on
your ankle or the north
Virginia perfume. No,
the tangle of words
that want words with
the splatter of stinks
and flubbed phrases.
Capitols for adverbs in
the middle of a line, 16th
century words and some
occasional diction. I’ve
got it: it’s a plot to suck
readings into what’s
clear as headline news.
What with Bukoski still
so popular, more books
of his stolen from shelves,
maybe the brigade is
out to say those people
who read him don’t
read poetry, don’t
count. So this flubbed
poetry must be a short
cut back to him
MISSING THE EARLY ALMOST
BREAKING OUT ROSE OF SHARON CLUTCHED IN GREEN
today the light is
almost violent.
Now the tree that
isn’t a rose but is
as like one as you
are a love, has
burst, covers the
pond. Under where
I’m wondering what
to do with you, a
mourning dove on
her nest. I ache for
your summer thighs,
that hard, that salt.
Was it the shower I
didn’t say yes to?
The room smelled of
wet Austin earth.
Wasn’t there enough
rum t decode? was
the salt you wanted not
the Margarita but my plum?
ON ACTUALLY FINDING A POEM BYT
A POET I THOUGHT I COULDN’T STAND THAT I CAN
I like his idea on
dinner, the salt
and slide of a feast
of plum, the slipper.
the salt water. That
wild ache before
coming to the lover’s
city, the dream
vibrations, the no
Jehovah Witnesses
of salesman on the
phone. Eden, where
what you’ve stared
for is all and enough
time to catlick, purr,
only the lightest S &
M claws, the plum
wine slip dripping,
dam intaglio of
pearls in the street
IN THE DREAM
Rorschach and intaglio tattoo
the bed, the no valium bad dreams
written down and as smoke in
what goes but black in a chimney.
When I send e mail, the phone
rings. When you read them,
are you alone? We’ve been thru
this paper seduction, deleted in
flesh. Isn’t what isn’t enough?
The what-imagined. Thighs that
won’t quietly leave a reading,
a room? You with your stories,
your blues, do you really think
derangement is enough?
THE TERRIBLE CONFESSION
: I don’t hate all
the poems. Is it
permissible, after
what I said? Or
the kiss on lets
just say put my
thighs against his
hand? Should I
never admit the
terror of even an
other Margarita in
a new bar? Who is
thinking of bed?
Or he died, we’ll
notice I’m 3 years
older. Can we float
above the tables
at the outdoor
café, take metros
in opposite directions?
And the ghosts?
Will they haul
you back, new
words from the old
darkness. The
trouble in mind
I’m oh so and blue
and your they
were blue eyes
weren’t they
or green?
I NO LONGER BELIEVE LADY BUGS
ARE A SIGN OF SOMETHING GOOD HAPPENING
Not only that her day
fell apart after I told
her. She thought they
were good luck, a word
or sign from the dead.
The week like a speed
date, it took days to
realize the red circle
never moved. What I
couldn’t suck up haunted,
the ghost I pull back
from old e mail before
he had. No luck in
escaping what I made up
or our Margarita blue
masquerade. Was there
a scent I missed, a
sign, luring my own
prey closer with crumbs
that unlike you, I have
no plans to cage
AFTRWARD, NO MORE E MAIL NO
MORE PAIN OF READING THEM
Meanwhile, crows come
back. I went to France.
I horse of darkness held
me. There were roses.
Being with you, a
black shop that capsizes.
Sill, ease is something
built in sand, some
thing the ocean wants
ON A DAY I’M TOO FRAGILE TO
IMAGINE LOVERS
under tree roots, roots
tangling with rings on there
hands. Commuter numb,
unable to download what
I needed, I’ve hardly
noticed yellow tulips
filling with rain, how no
one has sent me news about
relatives dying. Or that
they just tested positive
for. I haven’t gotten bad news,
there are men still interested.
And better, that I don’t
need them. Not yet time for
an artificial anything to give
up nightly ballet. There’s
no history I know of. I
don’t have babies, small girls
apt to be abducted, hog tied
clutching a small purple toy,
left alive to suffocate in
plastic in a shallow grave.
So what if it’s a few hours
before someone who cares
who can open a file. There is
no reason I can’t just sit,
watch the sky go dove
and pewter, the cat on my
feet, lemon tea
FIRST IT WAS A POEM THAT WAS
LIKE A LABYRINTH
the splatter of verbs
stained morning. I wanted
to crave something, or
else escape the tangled.
And today, free that
what won’t sear. Oh, it
is only computer rejection,
not the tongue, or cat
lap, there’s enough to go
around and the green
new boughs camouflage
is visible by the hour. Well,
at least by the end of
the day. In last night’s dream,
the mail boxes were replaced
by cardboard ones. I
read a man shot his car
when it let him down but
there’s no pistol on the
desk. Did you ever read some
thing so obtuse you could
imagine setting it on fire?
APRIL RAIN
it’s the kind of afternoon,
computer frustration blues,
no black coffee camouflage.
Wasted hours, complaining
blues, the not as bad as a
Robert Johnson bad blue
day after you kick in the
door, are definitely Hell-
bound. Blues in the bed
but that’s an every morning
blue. He knew how blue
gets bluer, a vodka blue,
deep gin blue. Hound dog’s
an only friend. The rain
isn’t stopping, it said it
would, another lie. Blue
air, nothing but,
all there is
WHEN I THINK OF THE CHILD
clutching her purple dachshund
kneeling, under the earth.
How long, the plastic tight
as the rope. Only the stuffed
animals familiar as light
went away. When I think of
a child snatched from warm
sheets, her toothy grin and wide
eyes, her sweet smell in
pajamas, skin, baby shampoo.
lilies. I can’t believe even
the ugliest, the ones whose
breath must reek of rot, can be
anything but a monster, not
an animal, not human but
built of decay an slime, some
thing nothing alive would
not want to turn their eyes from
The nausea of something dead
walking, creeping into her
flowers sheets, the curtains pink
tasseled. There like a mud
slide, a tsunami, a plague as
even something that could
sit back and switch on, goes out
for a beer. Under the earth,
the child not yet dead
WHEN I THINK OF THE GIRL, 9,
CROUCHING, HOLDING A PURPLE DACHSHUND
I think of the purple
long dog, dachshund,
it must have been
from a fraternity dance
I think. I’ll never be
able to look at it the
same way. It must
have pressed her face,
last breath, held for
dear life. Nights esp
when I can’t sleep I
pull the cat as if her
warmth could be part
of me. Even safe, my
lover close, night
terrors stalks. Some
times I think of the
blooming wild apricot
stalk I water in its
earth bed, numb in
this airless room
where little soothes
WHEN I CAN’T SLEEP
when before it’s light
something in the mourning
cove’s moan is more
mournful, different. I press
my face into the cat’s fur,
or am under her, as if
her heart beat could blur
terror. Today I think of
the child bound and raped,
snatched from sheets,
pillows smelling of her
tawny hair. I think of her
clutching the purple dolphin,
her heat, her blood in
terror, holding on to that
one thing as something
that could not have
been human tore life from
her smile, her body,
buried her alive, fingers
braided, hardening into the
last thing she saw she loved
MYRA’S MOTHER
the call, a dark
whisper spreading
its stain thru sorority
walls. “Electric
blanket.” “Fire.”
“beyond recognition.”
The way a child was
there in flannel
pajamas and then
isn’t, her mother,
overnight. The body
could have come
out of the ovens in
Auschwitz. It was
before “Holocaust,”
the word was more
than a whisper.
“What they did to
young girls,” before
Myra even imagined
her babies with a
grand mother who’d
be at hr weddings.
“Myra’s mother,” the
snow, the Syracuse
grey wind. Sometimes
traveling I call a
neighbor, check the
house, if I’ve left
anything that could
catch fire
WHEN I HEAR OF THE CHILD
pulled from sheets
from her small dog
deep under quilts.
When I think of her
asleep, maybe dream-
ing of kittens when
the monster grabs her,
I remember a woman
in my sorority getting
the news, hearing, like
the child snuggling
in pastel sheets one
moment and then,
terror, a hand over a
mouth, flame- smoke
ravaging the woman.
There in their sleep
dance, in their lullaby
of branches, in their
sleep like mist, in the
melting, held hands,
mouths whispering
love dissolving
IF SHE WAS WHITE
if one hand
was on the small
of her back, the
other over her
mouth. If she was
swept a blurred
image in a photo
graph, a ghost.
Someone on a porch
might think she was
the wind, the cry
frozen, the only
color, her purple
dolphin, white on
white you wouldn’t
see light moving thru
black trees leaving
the dark even
darker
SHE KNELT OVER THE PURPLE TOY
she was holding the
stuffed dolphin, a
favorite, the last
thing she could
hold on to. She
must have burned
from where his
body was a knife.
The trees roots
singing an under
world bed of earth.
No dog, no arms.
No breath
AFTERWARD
the monster in orange,
how the last living
thing she saw was
so hideous.
Cover the hole.
Someone do something
with the plastic, the
days of hoping
are over. Cover
her terror. Cover the
earth with flowers.
She was grasping
a purple dolphin.
Dream a slow noose,
amnesia for the
child’s ghost, the
on green, mold
APRIL 25
the pear, swollen
with rain
not the sharp scent,
sweat of wild apricot
but floating ghost trees,
boughs in the distance
the night’s darlings.
Snow that hovers
at the edge,
your memory
ROSES
yellow they
stick my skin.
First yellow tulle
gown, a boy
who couldn’t.
And then, the
blood rose, a
dark haired
boy I would
not marry. Here,
pear lace, snow
on grass guess
scutter from.
ghost trees.
White leaves,
white flowers.
Quiet enough
to hear the
bracelet of dew.
You were as
glittery but
poisonous
WHEN LOOKING TOWARD WHERE I
WAS GOING EVAPORATES
and it’s 1985, those
old white roses
ballet dancer in the park
“to the White Rose”
written under it. Her
pale sox like what
I imagine my mother,
at 9, wearing to
rescue her 3 legged dog.
Heavy snow rose
the last love’s The
White Rose.” He
loved my blue lace
bikini, the rosettes
pinned discretely,
wilder than I am
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