dancing bones

she might tell you otherwise
but, her hobby
is collecting broken people.
i've watched her
take a man
with severed family ties
and stitch him seamlessly
back into the folds
and creases of his obligations.
observed her patiently working the puzzle
of someones fractured spirit
beginning with the edges
until all pieces interlock
and there are no empty spaces.
she takes what has been discarded, forgotten
or shamed
and becomes their mirror
so when they look at her
all they see is love
reflecting.

memory

when i was six years old
we had plans to go to the ice capades
with the neighbor up the street and her three daughters.

for weeks i skated through the house in my socks,
sliding across the kitchen floor,
arms arced, face upturned toward imaginary glory.

shortly before the event, our friend's grandmother
fell ill, and was hospitalized.
instead of, "only nine more days until the ice capades"
the familiar refrain was, "we'll see, dana. we'll see."

i kept anxious watch on her progress,
pestering my mother daily for "the good news".
it didn't come.

in typical taurean fashion,
i snorted and stomped and raged
"i wish she would hurry up and die, then."

as soon as i let the words loose, i felt my heart
start to crumble.
i even shocked myself with my selfishness.

i am still ashamed.

safe passage

on this friday,
nothing
was ever the same.

it almost was something
then, wasn't.

nothing. anymore. for always.

next to godliness

so we decided to skip church
one sunday, my high school sweetheart and i,
and drink coffee and eat sweet rolls with butter
at the dog pound, instead.

i never went to mass with him, again.

the trouble with being childless
is all that love has to go somewhere
i've developed an unnatural attachment
to my cat
i've actually cried when leaving her
sun glittering in green green eyes
when she asks me with those eyes
to stay.

day~ly routine

practical methodical
i see myself, this way
early to bed early to rise
dawn the grace of each new day

the rooster crows
in first slivers of light
six cats emerge
from cloak of night

start the coffee
feed the pride
throw wide the door
and step outside

inhale deeply
give thanks and praise
blessed is she
of simple ways.

i went kayaking today down the nehalem river,
seduced by yesterday's premature warmth
and the company of two fine women.
we put in at aldervale, sunshine on our backs
as we scooted and hitched
down the boat ramp into high tide.
dip glide dip glide dip glide
i imagined we looked like a painting,
part of a pastoral scene dotted with bovine and daffodils
until the pungent, "dairy~air" we're famous for
hit my nostils.
"entering the cow canal" chirped lindy.
i laughed.
"seriously." she said.
"we wouldn't want to swim in this part of the river.
all things cow make their way into these waters!"
all things cow.
which got me thinking about india and the river ganges.
about purification. about faith.
about how millions of people have stood side by side in the filthy water and walked away feeling cleansed.

this is my river.
where all things cow all things sacred all things possible flow.

you've seen her, before.
That Woman.
heard the whispers, the small town gossip.
over decaf skinny lattes and almond biscotti
you sneak a glance her way, and try hard not to breathe. dirty socks hang limp around swollen ankles, is she wearing two skirts? and what is she doing in here?
her smell is mossy and damp, like deep forest. there are
generations of dirt under her fingernails, untold stories behind cloudy eyes.

you just know she knows something you don't.
and as hard as you try to pity her lack.
you know you're the one who's missing.

mirage

the arch cape tunnel on highway 101 in oregon
heralds your entrance into the tiny, coastal community of the same name
but, my mother and i have found it is only there on days
when conversation between us is lagging.

Love Lies Bleating
(thank you, reginald dwight)

when i was a child, i wore shoes on my hands and crawled around the floor on all fours.
clip clop clip clop.
goaty was the name, saving lives was the game.
saint frances of the neverworld,
my purpose was search and rescue.
find the lost
protect the weak
love the ugly.
clippity clop! clippity clop!
throw in a head toss and a snort for good measure.
strange embodiment for a little girl,
a cloven hooved masculine energy;
i like to think i was channeling pan--
genus capra,
or faunus, as the romans would say.
stubborn goaty,
loving in your unruly, goatish fashion,
how could anything as sure-footed as a goat be as clumsy as you?

invitation only

when i was sixteen i worked at The Grand Union
as a cashier after school and weekends.
double time on holidays.
one of the first "gourmet" groceries of the area
it catered to a specialized crowd.
People Who Gave Dinner Parties. soap opera actresses. retired vaudvillians.
artists who didn't starve.
i stood there in red and white polyester
and weighed and bagged and toted.
i rang up exotic fruits from islands i'd never been, gnarled roots with the dust of africa still clinging,
slivers of portugese saffron in delicate, glass jars.
i did my homework.
i studied the geography of produce, learned the best cuts of meat, discovered the alchemy between bittersweet chocolate and wine.
and when the customer left through the sliding glass doors home, to family dinner, i never felt more alone.

the smell of smoked cheese on sundays still makes me cry.

tuesday's child

i wanted to name you stormy, she told me
born into the first thunderstorm of spring on the cusp of something hotter. someone bolder. somewhere between.
while i lay hollowed out carving you from from dreams.