because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

love

heronless

you will not know this story
unless you are here, how this river’s april
has so little of comfort
to the dying. picking yesterdays
through debris from the birds
nesting in our worn out
gutters, noting the unfronding
of lilac and hyacinth and other life close
to the ground, I hear sobbing
from two yards over, a woman
not myself, in agony. Stay close to the ground,
I want to say, away from the rooftops, the empty nests.
I call them our; not knowing whether it is true;
I have no other pronouns to offer.


Your heart

full moon

 

 

 

 

has grown old.
worn down by the lonelinesses
of a hundred empty homes,
sunken in
like fingers
fallen too long asleep
in a hot bath.

how else
do you show me
the moon,
its silky-
ink silhouette
stained on our back door,
and not kiss me?

there is no monitor
that measures
love. tell me: when
was the last time
it leapt?
got a running start
and just

jumped? heedless
of chasm, of canyon,
of distance?
of the finish,
the fear, the flatline?
your pulse
plays its thud-thump

through limp veins,
forgetting
how to thunder.
if i could see you
the way the lightning
sees, from inside the storm,
i would find it

damp and dark,
with slow rivers
and huddled walls,
a crumpled fist
written with little scars
but untouched, too,
by moonlight.


Moving the grains of our hillsides

…it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways…

–from Mary Oliver’s Song of the Builders

–for c.

if i parse out my hurt
into couplets, throw

it a title in bold, will
you be able to read it,

then? the picture frames
stand empty, the lust

poems all curled up into ash, soot
smeared on the back of my left hand

like sad ink as i reach
to light the last of the candle.

the government is selling
off lighthouses, up East

in Massachusetts, out
West in the Great Lakes.

maybe you
could find beautiful there.

we have not come very far, here,
after all: the same lonely feel

in the upstairs window,
the same lonely matching scars.

i can’t afford a lighthouse.
the child’s tower built from old brick

in the backyard
has nothing of beauty,

is no house for light.
if i unmake it

and hand you back the bricks
one by one,

i want you to know
what they can mean.


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