What Are Words

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What are words but inadequate

To tell what it was like

When Zinfandel ruled with chains?

I saw that I must fight my way

Across the wasteland

Lined with broken glass

That cut into my feet, my hands,

My knees where I stumbled.

There were no landmarks, no maps,

No guide to take my hand and lead me through

This gray with no horizon.

What are words?

Alone I fell into the scorn,

Suspended for an unnamed time.

In vain I sought the blackness

At the edge of obvious disdain.

Even this solace was denied.

When once my eyes closed

Behind my mind, I could not open

Them to look. I could not see

The way but felt a pull

Within. I clawed and struggled

And though a stranger to that place,

I knew its bounds, a wall of fear.

I knew because I laid each brick

Slung together with mortar  

Of flesh and tears and over time

Forgot whom I had caged inside.

I fought until my strength was gone

And in the quiet of No Place

I lay, indifferent, I had no words to care.

A grain of sand crumbled to earth,

Then, another, followed by another

Until the wall came down, destroyed

By the darkness of surrender.

A wish of air breathed sweet

Across my face and for the first time

I knew that I am. What are words to tell?

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Crepe Hanger

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I look

In his refrigerator, so bare

The only thing in it

Is the glare of light.

I turn

And walk out the door.

I think

He died and forgot

To quit breathing.

I’ll send

A card to his mother.

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Red Pith Helmet

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Side by side we worked

Bound by the difficult job

And shared work ethic. I hope

They’re not persnickety, she

Ventured. I rummaged in the back

Of my shop and found it.

He gave me this. He made it.

And I put it on my head,

The red pith helmet.

Any man who makes a

A red pith helmet

Is okay by me, she said.

And we went back to work,

Chuckling. The job isn’t so hard

Now we know the heart of the man.

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I Am One Feisty Courageous Woman

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I am one feisty courageous woman, let me tell you.

I wonder where I am going even when I’m hell bent

            For leather on my way.

I hear my roadmap on the wind, in the sway of cedar branches.

I see the way before me and set my feet.

I want time to bend to my desires; I want to bend to time.

I am one feisty courageous woman, let me tell you.

I pretend that I am the wind, the tree, the stone and I am.

I feel the earth’s spin, the motion of the stars, silent.

I touch your center even as you touch mine, and you, enigmatic world,

            Become my lover.

I worry that your love might spirit me into madness, yet,

I cry in the night wanting to fly beyond every boundary of reason.

I am one feisty courageous woman, let me tell you.

I understand my limitations—

            They are the same as yours.

I say a thing and it is so.

I dream new worlds into being.

I try on all my selves and they fit.

I hope it is enough to be.

I am one feisty courageous woman, let me tell you.

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False Pretenses

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You lured me here—

No, that’s not true—

I decided . . .

You said “love”,

I fell into your brown eyes.

I’m here. Where are you?

Your spare toothbrush lives here. A comb.

A pair of flip-flops, total inventory,

Not enough to warrant a dresser drawer.

You visit. Show up . . . some nights

At eight or nine or ten. In your pack

You carry slacks and a shirt for work—

Tomorrow. You set up my ironing board,

Make pretty; no wrinkles mar you.

This might take an hour. You shower.

Another hour. Then you want to fuck.

You think I’m ready for a good time?

Some nights we exchange a dozen words.

I wonder who you are.

I wonder who I’ve become.

Some would call this depression.

I do not know.

You say you help your “sister”.

Who is she? You eat her meals.

You have a bed? A room? Or the house?

You have grown children. Does anybody

Know about me? Am I a secret?

I wait. I wait. I wait.

Want to hear about my day?

You never ask. I sweep, mop,

Scrub the toilet. I bake bread,

Boil a pot of beans. Walk to the market,

Haul my dirty clothes to the laundry.

I read, I sleep, I wait. I pray

To sleep. I pray for help. I pray

To stay sane. Night comes.

I cannot keep my eyes open.

If you think I’ll wait forever,

You’ve got another think coming.

Woke up this morning, changed the locks,

Put a dinky bag on the curb for garbage pickup,

And set out to walk on with my life.

Janet was right. At our age,

When you come sniffing ‘round,

You are looking for a nurse or a purse.

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Going Through Browning On The Train

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On a day like today,

Black clouds roil

Down the slopes,

Snow deep in the coulees,

This stretch of country

Wears sadness like a blanket.

A black-haired young man

Races his pony across the hills,

His life the sum total

Of the thousand forebears

It took to bring him

To this day.

Races his pony to an end

Only he can see.

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High Horse

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High horse, Grandma said

Snorting ‘umble pie

Uriah Heap stuck in his thumb

Mumble head bowed deflect praise

Blame bring you down

To ground level ground

Grind grind ground

Into a shadow

Of who you are

Never mind

The consequences

Now get back out there

And do it.

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Peeling the Onion

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Today while chopping onions

For baked beans, I considered

The metaphorical onion.

I’ve been going through a rough patch

The past several weeks, peeling

Off another layer of long ago.

If only one layer would deal with one

Memory, wouldn’t be so bad,

But the damn things are so irrevocably

Interconnected. I’d like to think

I’ve ripped off the last layer

But I’d only fool myself.

There’s nothing for me to do

But keep on peeling

Right down to the weeping.

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Moving In

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I’m new here

Although I’m old

In other places.

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The Way We Are

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We are born. We are taught, this is the way

I live in this family, this neighborhood,

This country. I look around. I want to fit,

To look, smell, taste, act like you. I buy into

Pre-packaged beliefs, plans, ideas. As a people,

We dance in synchronization, a ballet

Indigenous to our area, our caste.

Until, one day, maybe, one person shifts;

He drapes beads around his neck,

Pulls on a tie-dye shirt, grows his hair

Long and shaggy, exchanges boots for sandals.

He searches, sees others who look like him.

They hang out. They look, smell, act alike.

Is he different? Is he a different “same”?

It’s hard work to make my life not be

An imitation, a reaction to family, friends.

I dig deeply into assumptions, mostly hidden;

Some scream hysterically in the light of day.

If I succeed, if I live with my own slant,

The trick then becomes, to not think

Everyone else should be like me.

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