Small Death

(after Billy Collins)

I thought of her small death so often,
tangled in the tubes and wires of the dark,
that it came to have shape and strength,
more than a weak cry in an incubator
and the blue mottled skin of a defect heart.

Her small death had an entrance and exit
wound any bullet could pass through
at ordinary times and leave
on the prickly rush of strangled tears.

Her small death held both grief and gain,
the imagined perfect baby stolen, replaced
as a stranger with broken and retarded
parts, weak muscles and difficult growth.

Her small death had a heart-lung machine
and a pacemaker, it had a ventilator hissing,
and alarms that you could not turn off.

In the harsh fluorescent light I took her
small death to sleep with me, and in every
corner of the nursery it hid from hope.

In the dark of night it became the hope
of the next day and all the days to follow,
and moved into the future in the beat of her heart.

***

My daughter Meghan had open heart surgery when she was 5 months old, this comes from that time and all the times it comes back to me like it was yesterday. She is 12 years old now.

Seamstress

I try to sew myself
to your left side,
a chain of cross-stitches
kindle along our skin,
an iris at the shoulders,
an apple at the hips,

so our single beats
collide with each
breath, I try to stitch
us chest to breast,
our bodies spools
of indigo and flame.

When the needle
pierces our flesh
threads tangle,
slipknots unravel
and dragonflies arc
from our ankles in flight.

Rigors Of The Heart

I will write you
long poems
with a porcupine
quill, sign
my name
with the claw
of a black bear.

I will keep
our empty words
undigested
in the coughball
of a screech owl.

Our love
will be imperfect,
small bones
scattered under
yellow pine
needles.

***

Wild Flower

(after Louise Gluck)

Part 1

You want to know what I am thinking?
I walk along the creek's edge, stopping
now and then to smell the wild
flowers, photograph their ephemeral
petals. I am compelled to catalogue
their brief existence: in fact
I am looking for strength.
Even though beautiful things
are short-lived, their beauty
will return. The smallest blooms
have the sweetest scent. I am tempted
to gather a bouquet, to hold on
to the scent, to press
the perianths. Always the white
petals fade to pink, then wilt
and drop. They leave behind
a seed head or some color berry.

Part 2

You want to see my face,
but I do not turn your way.
Your eyes follow me as I wind
my way along the full creek
and through the burgeoning woods.
You want to know what I am thinking.
I stop among the nodding trilliums,
count star flowers, touch anemone.
I stoop to pick one small white
bloom, unidentified. I bring
it to my nose. I still do not turn
your way. You see me as beautiful
again, it surprises you.
Later, you will read my journal,
find the names of wild flowers,
one small white blossom, pressed,
a poem growing along the margin.


***

Gesture Of Irises

He wraps anger
in the silence of white
paper and coiled
ribbons of insecurity,

then builds limestone
steps, asks if she wants
irises to transplant
or will she let them rot.

In the hot sun she plants
wilted promises along
the steps. A light on her
knee, the dragonfly folds

onyx wings in prayer.
Hope is the purple of cold
creek water, next June
there must be irises.

Find More Of My Poetry

You'll have to check archives and past issues, but you'll find them and some more great poetry along the way.


http://www.amaze-cinquain.com/front.html

http://www.mindfirerenew.com/

http://www.lochravenreview.net

http://pages.prodigy.net/sol.magazine/

http://webdelsol.com/IBPC/winningpoems6.html