For Bridget Lee

You lived on a valley road
with an oak tree towering in front.
We would pile leaves there beneath it
and jump into the dark corners of the world
to discover the feeling of being lost
amidst the confidence of our youth.

It wasn’t long before our parents
could no longer provide us with answers
to why the winter was long
and the month of July fleeting.
So we would pause
underneath branches of maples,
and taste syrup dripping onto our tongues
to remind us of our sacred existence.

Our hands would gather salamanders
as if they were emerald gems—because
even then we knew
we were attempting to keep
something beautiful.

But there were other days
when we yearned for the mystery.

So we would travel back further
into the woods and darkness,
knowing that answers were meant to be hidden
somewhere within the roots of trees.

painting by: jess gonacha

One Birth

She says she dances like her father.
A man she hardly knows,
but visits on occasion
to witness lines, wrinkles, and laughter
each one has inherited and shared.

They walk on Pacific shorelines
to comment on waves crashing in
and how tides within their hearts
pull them under surfaces of distant skin.

He says—water is resistant,
a volatile compound of
hydrogen and oxygen
creating an elemental bond
between two letters, or people of varying degrees.

All you need is a number to connect
the present to its past, and the air we breathe
to the water in which we were born,
of and through and out into the startling world.

It is a space of white,
not like heaven where there are many doors,
but a hospital room where angels
are already waiting with broken wings.

We don’t know any better.
We say its okay because our mothers
are already holding us to their breasts,
inhaling parts of themselves they wish to heal,
every corner and crease of our infant bodies
and our open eyes.

They pause to listen for our survival,
whether we will make it through the night
and grow into something they can claim
as their creation, their retribution for the mystery
of it all.

This life, these words,
our poems
aching to come back to you.

Our Circus Routine

You want to be cared for,
groomed by my experienced hands
and embraced by my open thighs.
To you, I am a tightrope walker.
With each step, I am able to balance
on the winding rope that weaves itself
into the mystery of your heart.
I will slowly pull each part of you
into the spinning spotlight
to see everything beneath our feet
rise above our heads,
as we tumble and fall.

painting by: sarah blank

One May Evening

You are connected to me like
veins of a fruit tree,
each juncture vital to the taste.
I haven’t swept you away yet--
hoping you might perch yourself
on my shoulder, or elegantly fold
your cardinal wings into the nest
of my tightened chest.
Yes, it is difficult for you to see me there
hidden within the limbs of the cedar,
towering over a browse line
that has been stolen away.
But each of us are lonely settlers here,
much like the fox that passes through our garden--
we are waiting to be nourished
and loved.

Waiting on Spells

In the evening I laid down to

tell you there were spaces missing
it was as if the magic I had used to draw you in
had escaped into someone’s rabbit hat

You assured me I still had spells in my pocket
and I promised you I would cast these in time
if it meant that capturing the moon
would make you forget about our bodies
and the way they suffocate
in the white heat of our linen sheets

You gaze at streetlights outside our window
and I pretend to listen to wind
coming through lace curtains that touch our floor
It appears that we will welcome any witness
to guess at charades and mysteries
we will never solve

I don’t know what can save us
from ourselves or the weight of these words
walking in my journal
this escape is no longer curing
our lonely disease

So tomorrow I will drop rocks in water
and predict sounds they will throw to muddy banks
I will begin to find comfort
in the way rings descend out into sand
and once these prayers reach the shore
I will find you waiting

Grace

If you ask me why she is unique,
I will point to amber leaves
arching up and under
the silhouette of a morning moon,
and have you take note
of how she stretches her calves
on a winding, valley road
attempting to chase away and bury
past regrets all of us share.
It doesn’t matter that she can’t see the finish,
the way a heron touches down on still water
feeling relieved from the effort of wings
yet unknowing of the grace that has allowed it to rest.
It is this sanctuary of space and time,
a place we have all ventured.
Like white haired women pausing in the rain,
we are able to take back
what we have already planted
and laugh at worries that have washed away.
She is no longer the fool
jumping haphazardly, hanging upside down,
but rather a subtle priestess
running through storms and clouds.

Haiku for Nora

You have grown within
A spring bud beneath my skin
I open for you