March 19, 2009


Mirrors double
what they reflect.
Hang them only
upon trees.

Love Poem

Every poem is a love poem
existing only to speak softly
in the mind’s ear of the beloved.

Queen of Heaven

Brando, on his knees, yells
a woman’s name.
Felt more like a tango,
slim in my dress,
remembering that bus ride
and Hoffman’s palms
on church-glass.
He was screaming
a woman’s name.
Jesus, like other stars,
rose up and whispered,
a woman’s name.

March 14, 2009

Imagined Kisses

Imagined kisses recall and project.
Reincarnating past kisses, mixing

with future kisses. Imagined kisses
are almost and they buzz there.

Imagined kisses are everywhere
and anything you’ve got in mind.

Make them and take them.
Read these lips; you wrote them.

When you see these lips, imagine kisses.

(Blushing Butterfly, Reduction Print by Jessica Stuart Harris) Real Kisses

Real kisses in the tongue-tied darkness
expectant brushing lids and lashes

Fumbling lips licked stretch to meet
chins knock beneath urgent tongues

Real kisses in the awkwardness
of sheets and ravaged pillows.

Real kisses blaze a path for fingertips,
spill amid rustling, above the chafe of denim.

Real kisses are unimaginable.

March 12, 2009


The apartment walls were stark white, the carpet and your hair
the same auburn. Reds were big then, like your bloody anger
over tomato soup. How long and lean and cool you were. Steely eyes
and icy attitude topped with hot: hair, head, and pursuit of passion.
Michael the enigma, my nemesis, the electric switch of my libido,
you could beat me down and eat me back around to believing.

When, finally, I left, you held up in my apartment for three days.
I returned to find no stones rolled back, only twisted sheets,
bedroom a ransacked wardrobe, drawers pulled open, every
ashtray spilling over. Nothing hid from the un-shaded lamp’s glare.
To end your rampage you ate the medicine chest – swallowed it whole
and spewed it on the rug. I can see you there, rocking on your heels,

bent on begging me back in. After the sirens died in the distance,
I was left alone with that comforting vomit stain. I drew strength from the weakness of your gut. You couldn’t hold death down in your belly long enough to let it take you. I always believed you fed me. You didn’t.
You fed on me. For a time I enjoyed your feasting. Your tongue sending
hard and soft messages at once. Have other women split in two?

Or was it just the mix of me and you? Michael, Aries of fire, I remember the light that shone from lamps you broke, that worn-out couch sprayed with the shattered glass of a framed print, phone call, after phone call, after phone call, the only words from the receiver, “Meg, Meg.“ You at my windows and doors pressing your fingertips and face against the pane. And I remember lovemaking on the living room floor, the open window’s wooden shade tapping in the summer night

wind. The city sounds of voices and barking in the far yard, all of these, lit by the licks of fire between us. Or in the bedroom, convent lights glowing across the street, showing the sisters what they’d missed about their brothers. In those years we were too busy posing to take a photograph. I am left with the tiny silver charm you gave me, letters I never sent and the brown clay pot you made in grade school which is now my favorite ashtray. I cover my knees with the quilt we

once covered with flames. Michael, do you hear my ghostly call? See my press against your window? Does my specter roam the moors of your warm thought? You vowed no other woman would flare you up as hot. Speechless and angry we’d go to bed and awake unchanged. Yet between the dark invisibility of night sheets how needs erased pride and postponed apologies – we rubbed sticks to fiery blaze, exchanged kisses, fluids & places. At dawn, the wall between us rose

as if our passion were only dreamt. Michael, are you my invention? Something I created and un-create and recreate tonight on paper? You do not answer. Now a tapping on the window of the summer night wind, the neighbor’s voices, a dog barking in the next yard, distract me. In the brown ashtray, I snuff you out with my cigarette. You linger there in the last glow of its embers.

March 10, 2009

It was Nothing

Is nothing empty?
Nothing love?
No beginning or end?
Nothing is that did not begin.
Oh nothing, you dark star,
You white dove,
You are everything
to me my love.

March 05, 2009

Incantation for Vernal Equinox

Spring is caught—frost cloaks baby crocuses.
The junk of winter’s needle slows the flow.

The poem does not come. We call the laughing God.
The divine hunter whose reckless arrows wound

the thunderclouds. You the guzzler of ambrosia,
The blood-letter of buds, announce spring!

All the walled up of winter melts down with you
and the heavy rains. The Goddess maiden

is on your heels. She reigns all flowering.
You participate in the Earthen Goddess.

You plant yourself in Spring. Under the gray roots
of lightening sky, you make love to her.

Hidden by blankets of air and sunlight,
the grace of desire spills from the cliff edge

of a whirling floral bed. Every living thing,
her stone, her leaf, knows—Spring!


After an artifact of the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum Before we left Oswiecim, went to work elsewhere for the devil, and we left you to ...