You Must Have Fallen (28 June 2007)

to c.

because you're cracked.
The shattered pieces
catch the light and blind me.
And you look so pitiful there, lying
in your own glittering mess
like a child whose costume
box has exploded.
I long to pick you up: not
to be your friend
but to fix you. I reach down,
trusting and ungloved,
but the shards are sharp.
My blood is everywhere;
I don't have much left.
I am told that was your plan
all along, but it can't be so.
I refuse to believe it.
No one is that cruel.

After the Amy Steinburg Show

"I love you."
I want to reach out
into the empty space between us and
fill it with my love.
I want to bake the words with
heated passion, rasping out
"I love you."
I want to stack up
I love you I
love you I love you
build them up into
a wall so tall and so strong
that you cannot possibly
climb over to hurt me.

Watching Her Mow the Lawn (20 Sept. 2005)

is like watching a sculpture
take shape. The excess is sliced away,
revealing smooth and undulating lines.
Each hollow and hillock resembles her own
as the lean, narrow muscles bulge
to work through a tangled patch of kudzu.
A trickle--no, stream--of sweat
traces the curve of her face.
The nearly invisible fuzz on her cheek
is dewy with it.
Her moist shoulder is freckled
with grass debris. It finds every fold
in her shirt, every crease in her joints
and clings to her, relentlessly.

The First Time (20-23 January 2006)

Sex is a serious sport,
not to be undertaken lightly.
The others dive from that precipice,
thinking only of the thrill.
They will crash, inevitably,
and hurt themselves. It is an exhilarating
terror, so I want to be careful.

Anything this risky, this permanent,
obligates us to something greater
than love: commitment.
Sex changes us, mingles more
than body fluids. It is conceived
by--and exposes--love.

I step lightly, to its edge, with you.
There is nothing here to hold on to
except each other and our fright
brings us closer together.

The 78th Day of Marriage (14 January 2008)

This morning, I discovered
the back of your right ear,
mushrooming into sturdy wrinkles.
Hidden in its crevices
are four freckles.
I counted them in astonishment
as you slept.
O dreaming conquest,
my beautiful plunder,
I had thought I knew everything
about you.

How To Be Heartless (1 March 2006)

You've probably been knitting
safe little bandages to keep it warm.
Stop.
Pull all the plugs, remove the dust
covers that are keeping it warm and soft.
Instead, mummify it, protect it.
Ice is a superb preservative. Let it harden,
then swathe it in steel as smooth and cool
as a rejection.
Then you can forget it; it will sleep as if dead.
It will be safe.

To A Nephew (10 February 2003)

*Winner of the Rose Nurnberg award for poetry

I've seen the pictures of your failed birth,
your doll's body a rusty blush,
the color of dried blood.
I've stood on your grave,
a ridiculous kind of underground
fort for you to sleep in.
When I imagine you in Heaven,
sitting on Christ's lap
and surrounded by singing angels,
you are always blind and mute.
Your fetal eyes are like those
of deep-sea anglers:
existent, but invisible,
hidden behind fused spectacles of skin.
They follow your silent mouth
as it gapes open, fish-like,
your heard turning sharply from side to side.
And you resemble a guppy,
trying to swallow the angels' lullabies
which float down around you
in little flakes.

The World After a Movie (19 October 2004)

We are each born with a syllabus
full of lessons to be learned.
Some of them we learn in darkness,
out feet stuck to the floor by will

and the effects of time. I exit
this dimly lit schoolroom a few lessons brighter:
always be on guard, learn what to trust,
let yourself love, and--if you ever get the chance--

don't buy a robot. Movies alert you
to the unexpected, to the idea that, at any
minute, you could be killed or betrayed.
The world becomes more dangerous.

Clutching the steering wheel on the drive home,
I tune my radio to the perfect mood music
and imagine that the unexpected is just
about to happen.

Life Support (22 July 2006)

for d.

When the machines clicked and ceased
beeping, I was almost certain.
There was no whisper of breath,
no pulse twitching in your jugular.
Most convincingly,
the machines had stopped their radar.
They had said this might happen.

I felt warmth surge
out of me, leaving only
frozen, tingling fingers,
an ice block for a chest,
and a vague, persistent nausea.
And--I will admit it--
I was angry at you, sick

with rage and loss,
as if you'd cut off my arm.
But as I reached out for you,
a trembling hand grasping
for my phantom limb,
I stopped, was resurrected,
and looked straight into your now-open eyes.