The Neighbor
He comes to borrow tobacco
in his knee-high moccasins.
Like a child, his missing teeth
promise small payment:
that we’ll not notice as we measure
out a few fingers of Top
with rolling papers.
At mealtimes I ask him to stay,
make room on the couch in front of the TV.
I’m not saying we’re not enough in ourselves
or that we need the company.
Fallen
I am an apple
hanging fat upon the sighing limb.
Hard as a planet,
with eyes enough
to drink the sky,
I only have to speak
and the entire tree
listens with all its pointed ears.
But one slip
and I am face-down,
mumbling to myself,
beauty gone,
with only a worm's tongue.
Wealth
I own the moon
glowing in the southern sky.
My purse has many pockets
and all of them are full.
Our house has not burned down.
We have not drowned
on a ferry in Nigeria.
Flood waters have not forced
livestock to the roof.
I am rich.
Our cupboards are full,
there is grain in the bin.
I have a jewelry box glimmering
with amethyst, jade
and malachite.
A time will come when
we will lie down together
under lilacs and roses
and let the Braille of our headstones
tell our simple story.
Eight Years Old
I push my sneakered foot
into dirt fine as cake flour
and get the merry-go-round
going so fast I can barely hop on.
I smell the blue air.
I am stung by javelins the sun
throws. It is spring or summer,
autumn or winter. I am eight years old
and there is nothing to keep me
from remembering this.
Faith, Hope, Charity
Faith
waits at the curb
with the engine running—
makes sure you get in.
Hope
makes an appearance
then leaves—
says I’ll drop by
next time I’m in the neighborhood.
Charity
takes up residence
on the living room couch—
gives free advice.
Starlit Christ
I lie flattened by the heat;
all the covers abandoned to the floor.
The fan in the window does no good;
I crave water, any kind of shore.
A swim would help no matter
if the moon's bland face guarded
or I'd find a splintered skiff
pushed into tall reeds, oarless.
Let's say I found myself on a lake.
If a crowd began to gather
on the lantern shore,
I'd paddle by, my hands in cool water.
If I saw you walk towards me,
a starlit Christ, I'd turn away.
Your body would have its old heat
and I'd wake.
Flying on the Ceiling
The room is full of people
with drinks in their hands
eating crackers and deviled crab.
Gifts with rhododendron-sized ribbons
fill one corner of the room.
I stand on tiptoe and raise my arms
like a diver poised to axel off a board
then rise to the ceiling for no reason.
Drinks are spilled, presents knocked
over, all ceremony forgotten.
I like being the center of attention
but I keep drifting downward like
a balloon losing helium.
“It’s easy,” I tell them.
“Just raise your arms and jump.”
My upper body aches; my wing bones
hurt. I am the hallucination
effervescing in champagne,
I am reason saying goodbye,
I am the story they will talk about
the rest of their lives.
Snails
Snails born with transparent shells,
we hurt too well.
We cannot hide in the garden’s
uncoiled depth.
We have no defense
against the stalking crow
for we show all.
We harbor no secrets.
The tiny pulse of our heart
gives, gives, gives –
even a child can pick us up,
crush us with a breath.
So we pull in our one tapping foot
and move in shadows,
sensing light only,
tired of explaining ourselves.
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