little fears

i am frightened of

how quickly

i heal

from loss

how deeply

i remember

pain

how bravely

i love

still

[superstitions]

there’s a russian superstition
about offering a kiss or an embrace
over the threshold of a home.
something about the act disturbs the house spirits.

“either come in or get out” i am often told.
“don’t just stand in the doorway like that.”
“well, aren’t you going to let me in?”

i allow the mild vulnerability
of unlocking the door
and opening it, just a crack.
but i guard my house
and its dusty secrets
like a sentinel,
reaching out over the threshold
to portion out pieces of me
i’ve hoarded over the years.

this does a lot to explain
my unsettled spirits
but not why i still have friends
who knock at the door.

Tipping the Scales

I carry the “I am not alone”
And the “I am alone.”

I’m not sure which outweighs which.

The scales are never balanced,
But I tip them in my favor anyway.

The market is unfair.

I barter and scavenge
For every bit of
“I am not alone.”

April 1, 2020

What Does A Beetle Think About On A Hot Day?

I do not want to be beautiful.
You will wish to hold me
if I am beautiful,
but I do not want to be beautiful.

//

I want to burrow into the face of a mountain
like a beetle who does not think about
anything but burrowing.

//

I do not want to think about how I move through the world.

//

I want to slice through the air like a knife-
to aim where I go
and not quiver.

gifts

the tide recedes.
i find that it has left
a shell,
a crab,
some seaweed.
[the smell of salt hanging in the air.]

//

i walk along the seashore.
and remember that i have looked for love
and found it in the most wondrous places
[a shell,
a crab,
some seaweed.]

//

the smell of salt hanging in the air.

//

perhaps the world can also give
if only i learn to take with grace.

i shudder to think what would happen here without my vigilance

i close the blinds
draw the curtains
shutter the windows
prop the door closed
shut off the clocks
unplug the tv
let the plants droop
and the cat growl

where do the shadows move?
how does the wind still howl?

why does need penetrate every corner of this house?

3/29/2021

not really a poem- just an observation after a gathering

If I ask myself
again and again [and again]
whether I have laughed too loudly
or smiled too widely
or hugged too tight…

Whether I have taken up too much
space in a room
or a conversation-

Whether a jagged little piece of me
jutted out too far-

Whether I saw someone sidestep
or shirk away from me.

[perhaps I am too loud]

If I ask myself this one more time,
If I wring my hands in agony just one more time,
If I wonder if I shall be invited,
and if invited- welcome,
and if welcome- wanted
and if wanted- how much?

If I make myself so painfully observable
over and over-

I think I might just dissolve-
Fizz away-
like AlkaSeltzer in a glass of water.
Or flatten, quickly,
like a freshly poured Coke on a sticky day.

I wonder if I shall always choose to relish the torment
of feeling like I’m too much for the world
and the world- not enough for me.

little poet

i’m full of promises like shards of glass-
full of summers that never last,
full of warmth that’s cool like ice.
gloomy, like a bright sunrise.

i’m as constant as a day.
i always come, but never stay.
i’m a sturdy house of cards.
i am short, like a giraffe.

i am sweet like ginger root.
quiet like a mad baboon.
i am holy like a sin.
i play too much and never win.

i’m collected like the stars.
i am near and close like mars.
i am present like a fear-
but i am present.

i’m still here.

Found poem from long ago

daddy issues .1

you rule me with an iron fist
and a silver tongue.
my footsteps follow
the clang
of your brazen heart-
the thud
of your wooden teeth.

if i had to admit
i couldn’t say
whether there was
one inch of you
that was human flesh.

nothing but
hair and teeth

a stump

a coin

a pot

hollow and dead.

Found poem from long ago

i re-read my old diary & made myself sad again

I can hear the highway much clearer now that the leaves have fallen.
In the dissonance I have imagined you,
Half-asleep, smoking your last cigarette.
I see them everywhere these days, yellow box trucks like yours.

Sometimes (often) [always] I’m glad that you’re away.
It’s much more peaceful,
And I know who’s on the other end when I call to talk.

But when you’re here, I have to wonder who it is behind your eyes
and if I have to hide.
When you’re here, I become someone else too-
a caretaker, a counselor, a peacemaker.
When you’re here, I stop being a child.
I become hardened by necessity.

It’s so heavy when you’re here.

But I still miss you.
And I want you home for Christmas,
Even if it does mean that I’ll pray for you to leave again.

Found poem from long ago