Bone Content
We disagree about the weight
of wonder, how long it takes
a body to disappear.
Your father’s bones
are not boxed in a cave,
not fossilized. One midnight
I said he was gone
and marrow boiled
the pot to stew. I promise
to stay with you
though you forget
this vow half way through
each debate. We disagree
about content, what makes
a soul reinvent itself.
I love the whole you,
the sea captain, the cow,
but don’t know how to say it.
Bored Games
I want to tell toymakers the one
with the most money does not always win.
Retirement is not the end. At 8 all I wanted
in a board game was a 3-D spinner.
I had no clue about rules, missing a turn.
Now I lose sleep putting puzzle pieces
together, framing edges first so what’s left
will fit inside. See how I negotiate shade,
hopscotch my way down the block. I chase
a plastic bag in hopes of outrunning the wind,
ride ocean waves only as a way
to push my body ashore. My doodle
is just a sign the meeting is too long,
my tapestry of dinner, art while my husband
looks on. Just yesterday I repositioned
the guitar case and heard the strum
of what’s left undone, the piano
sitting upright in silent pose against the wall.
Hasbro says eight is the youngest age
to play the Game of Life, like they know
seven is not ready for the flatness of tire,
or the weight of marriage as a life tile.
At what age do I accept the taint of rain,
a prolonged promise of I do. These days
I dance to get my money’s worth
out of every reception band, sing to keep
from falling asleep. I move my token forward
heavy with the weight of sunrise.
Throwing Sorrow At The Wall
The dog has died in my arms,
and I walk through the house
as if my lover is the one who left
the lights on. The glow of grief,
the burn of lonely skin.
No blanket thick enough
to warm a broken heart. The shake
of loss. The nausea and the vertigo.
I sit up all night as if to keep
her indention in the bed.
A body of wet clothes hang limp
on a wire rack, beans soak by the stove.
I lick my fingers before
turning the paper page. Let me say
I miss her without intention
piling itself on the floor, high
as a stack of unread poems.
Habit is the way I continue to leave
eyeglasses face down
on the nightstand, the way
I go out and get another dog.
I check to see Millie’s chest rise,
exhale each time a whisker catches
the air of canine whispers.
I cannot throw sorrow against the wall
again and survive its echo.
I cannot stop myself from loving
this dog. This path of joy
rutted with mud, the voice
that keeps asking me to do this.
Daily Rations
I use a metal measuring cup
to feed my dog a diet
of portions. Dry kibble spills
into her silver bowl
and the sound is movie studio
rain, the way all we create
is imitation. This poem,
for example. Word
revised after word written.
I fake a sick day, make myself
a lunch of processed chicken,
record the storm, and listen.
How The Dead Keep Us Spinning
We are nothing more
than calcium and ash
but what we don’t know
is the precise time of birth.
Ask your mother if she
were alive. She might describe
November wind,
how it aches into places
only blood dares to hide.
We might visit the river
as it empties itself dank
at the lowest of tide. We might
survive. Your mother is earth,
her body the dust that keeps us
turning our heads west, each time
the sun sets. Day after day
we emerge from bitter night
thanks to the work of the dead,
an underground factory
of bones rolling over
until you are no longer
in mourning.
