What's Chipping.

They said
if you thought that the wind howled last night,
wait until you hear tonight's cooked up
pot of storm brew.

People look forward to things. when,
when they look backwards they trip on sidewalks;
uneven and patched with tar. They
look at patches of dry grass in the yard
of my neighbor's house

you know the ones
that mormon family
who moved away
the daughter pregnant
a year out of high school

that blue house
that's what's chipping.
The wind can howl at the shingles sometimes,

but when we find our bodies
inside, in sweaters, scarves
--pajamas, even
flannel lulls the sky of my sheets to sleep.

How to show anger, politely.

What if what I said made you
mad
or sad?
Is there any chance that who we are
has potentiality for radiant gladness,
for possibility,
for things to come?

These seeds are not grown overnight,
trees are not grown over weeks
but in decades of archaic time
when wishful thinking let me chopped wood on my professor's property
when we made love and kisses happen in the bathroom
when we drank bottles dry with french man and woman.

Things happen when we are organically,
scarily,
ourselves.

Nothing more, nothing less.
Let it rain.

the rapist.

sit on the stairs
SIT ON THE STAIRS
in footie pajamas
listen to shadows
moving, darting
to corners,
fists of words
pointed
in your face.
Sharp.

Sit on down,
down in the chair.
Sit it down, talk to me
like they didn't know how to.
They have all been paid to do this.

Eyes are for more than closing,
fingers are for more than turning pages of books
my baby yells didn't have to unhappily pierce the walls.
See me:

I can be jubilant screams to the sky
distant shouts making smoke signals
opening your eyes.
I can't be a buffer;
I can't stop hard falls.

The Couch, in response to "The Searchers".

It was the polyester hide-a-bed that meant death.
Pilled up fabric a rusted pumpkin orange,
my father sealed his eyes shut,

slept on through afternoon sun.
The light made patterns on the bedspread
across the lump of a languid body who only knew one thing:

hibernating with the bear
hanging with the jailbird
electrocuted by his God and father,

the door left a crack open to let out the stale air
the wooden floorboards creaked under our feet
as we tiptoed our way around expansive empty rooms.

Clavicles, how beautiful and
their neighbors,
the smooth ridges between neck and soft shoulder,
a ridge miniature goats might climb if they could.
If this body were a snow-tipped mountain.

Honeyed Tea and George

We talked, there sat at night. You rocked
with tea in hand, clever mind dissecting
my words, his eyes and hair, curled wet.
I grazed over your form.

And what is our purpose, you asked,
shirt off your shoulder, showing clavicle
showing shadow, probing thoughts stick in hand,
your feet probing shag carpet, searching.

_______
An attempt at a bit of loose iambic.

Grandiose.

It's a wintry afternoon. Mary Wise is cooking food for her people, and we are drinking good beer and having friends.


The windows fog up from your steam and
vegetables and coconut milk
in the pan, man,
a storm of sauce on white rice
like the color white on me.