crystallhorn

In my garage are these pieces I take with me from house to house

My mother's gliding rocker      against which she'd thrown her head back, laughing at Seinfeld      falling to pieces like she eventually did      the cushions long gone, stuffing lost           like the breasts they cut from her      screws come loose, and an armrest missing      a broken frame, my fragile mother It sits and nobody sits on it

My grandmother's wedding gown      petite and ivory silk on a virgin      the lace too yellowed to recover           as were the whites of her eyes      some buttons absent, having protested against my adolescent body      hung and exposed in its thin plastic sheath           surely going the way of her body in whatever she is buried Don't remember when it fit me, or when I last sat in her lap

Skis the color of a winter cloud      heaving with snow      adorned by cornflower swirls that circled turns with grace      dulling and scratched, accruing damage           as incrementally as did our marriage      stored and out of practice Inside of them, memories of your patience

Blue felt moving blankets      borrowed from good neighbors who made us laugh in summer      having just wrapped my half of our material life           folded and empty now I should've put one around me, save the cold brutality of separation

These things      for which I no longer have use      whose plastic and wood and fabric hang on the soul           on a traveler through hell

lover, where was that place again,      the apartment      where it always rained our spirits, wrought the same,      as they swam through dusty twilight,      heady, resting on my nose

in repose i spied      between strands of hair      your long legs, turning on toes your eyes, electrified,      while you broke time      shrouding windows

that apartment where the light was      forgiving in yellows,      your eyes and mine, heady, our spirits rose      a slick of consciousness,      river-heavy, they wind gathering them into my arms to find only a pile of throws

dear diary,

i’m trying to stay present.  i’m trying to be aware of all the things happening right now.  as though i’m suspended in a different point in time with every breath, more than with every breath.  each point singular.  i’ll never repeat any of these moments.  they are distinct.  but they are connected.  but only focus on right now.  like that breeze, or that bird, or that cricket.  feel the sun, and now the shade, and then the sun again.  

i doubt myself.  is the warmth i feel on my face not already 8 minutes old?  the starlight millions of years stale?  does the pain in my heart come from so deep in my trove of moments?  how can i still see it?  how can i still feel it?

carrying in their bodies the answer of suffering of death

ambassadors delivering a message we hadn’t asked for made no inquiry about

floating in the dirty air descend to defense they bring along the answer

and we’ll know it at the last minute all made clear when the b  o tt   o   m s    e t              t       l   e             s

and the birds flee a last time before it comes, we’ll know

as they circle, perfect hung thirst driving ours and they’ll feed us  the answer

how ambitious is our Mother or persistent

see the vine splinter the post stone walls stupefied by youthful oaks

see a crèche of young mosquitos       softly against invisible matter      a blurry singularity      hovering in unison      recreating in their boundary the living lung expires; they resume

that the lake should shrink and freeze that the rain should make it swell anew

how tenacious is the wild to be wild

see a lean, sweaty body taking rest beneath only invisible stars

see the craggy brow of the wild      ridge against invisible matter      a climax of thoughtfulness      dividing beside stillness      populated by polyappendage dreams the diaphragm snaps; it barely flinches

Old trees

So old and wide

So tall their bottoms are pulled away from the ground in their skyward stretch

The shoulders of their roots, and the caverns in their trunks

One opens itself to me

I lie in, rolling on my back

The cavern embraces me

Eyes closed I push back, pretending you and your spaces

And for a moment I’m in your bed, belly down

Your perfect body fitting itself behind mine

Arms on arms

And the water rushes by

Rolled over by the waving seedhead

Touched lightly by the breath of June

Made brighter by the light of thousands

I stood beneath a crescent moon

Pulled inward by the spinning giant

Made holy by the sweet festoon

Turned empty by the world around me

My mind assailed my heart,      and my heart beat back my thought. Nothing could be found      in the fugue of violence brought, and the tension twixt the two      warped all the progress wrought from civil, dumb control,      and unnatural patience taught. Here, then my body bends;  flexibility hope mends.

Yet fear made brittle bones,      so the framework of resolve was a fragile skeleton      of decisions that would solve a series of mistakes      that from path hath led me off. Delicately I would step,      hoping to find sin absolved. Unhappy trio I did make; body, mind and heart all break.

The three of us pressed on,      one tormented by the other, fain to hold the blame,      while the solemn truth we smother. Yet an angel in my ear      said, “The unrequiting Lover, the one who made you whole,      has set you all asunder.” We stopped dancing, weapons drawn, to take in a newborn dawn.

My mind drew in a breath      as if to focus sharpen, and a soft’ning of my heart      as if to fine words hearken. One party in forgiveness      and in brotherhood did mark him, and thus the two aligned,      a new humble journey starting. Caught in revolving plight: that which divided did unite.

Desire, though thou my old companion art,      And oft so clings to my pure Love that I      One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart, Now from thy fellowship I needs must part:      Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly;      I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart.      Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are left me by my only dear;      But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,      Now banished art.  But yet alas how shall?

at least the night is still the night if i am caught between the brook racing by the field building globes throwing it’s papery rustle from beyond the trees and the piano inside deep and sweetly pulling at my daughter’s heart her hands uniting beats and strings i see the space where it blends snow become warm by the glow from my windows and the sky made big by tiny far stars

at least the night is still the night and the owls beg tales of each other despite the branches curling with snow their dark plumage a shock against squalls that fall like a curtain bleeding white in the air before reaching the ground obscuring everything all the way down

when the night is still the night i can make my breath whole again and round my dog runs, dark against the ground sprung like the tension of a baby’s laugh and i can count on tracks in the snow seducing his nose at least

today I saw a woman taking a picture of her own paintings hanging in the Community Art Center.  She recently switched to acrylics and hates it.  Though as a medium, it is more forgiving than water colors.

today I saw a wedding in Congress Park, and a crowd gathered around the guests.  At first, you could only hear the violinist and see the group’s anticipation.  At the third chorus, the bride emerged from behind the garden wall.