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BLUE TABLE OF SKY
Was it bitterness?
The bitterness
of iron. Of being a
link? Yes.
And to what end.
Yes. But
was it hope?
Sometimes.
Sorrow or joy? What
difference?
What else was there?
There was always food.
Dumplings, tea,
fruit. I remember
watching my face
change from old woman
to young girl in a
basement mirror.
I remember holding my
daughter’s hand
and seeing my
grandmother’s visions.
The one who thought
her baby
was a bouquet of
flowers. Yes,
and the wallpaper a
map. Did you love
a city? Many
cities. Did you love
a man? Many men. A
woman?
A few. Which one do
you think of
now? The husband and
the girl
from high school. I
remember
clouds spilling
across
the upturned blue
table of sky.
I remember black sky
white
stars waves moon salt
green streaks beneath
the water. Do you
think
we could have known?
I still don’t know.
THE DEFINITIONS
As a young girl
I used to study
the definitions.
Body a sphere
that walks around
waterlogged,
eating pretzels with
mustard.
Beauty a hologram
spinning onstage,
white light whipped
to cream.
Time a crack in a
mirror
that changes your
face
when you look.
FISH POETICA
The pool of the soul
is deep,
maybe infinite.
I cast my line
and the fish I find:
beautiful rainbow
fish
yellow stinking fish
with no eyes
and sometimes no fish
just the feeling
of plummet.
ATITLAN
Green volcanoes
embrace the lake.
Each afternoon
the xocomil comes,
wind that rubs the
lake
against its grain.
Then sunset broadens
the view.
The first time
we stand captivated,
but soon even
breathing
becomes commonplace
and evening an
exercise
of willing myself
to pay attention.
You say, "I want to
get
drunk tonight!"
And then you buy
two boxes of wine
from Don Rafa, and
do.
I am far from home.
I want to be a good
traveller.
I have come here to
love you.
I hold you as you
wheeze
in your sleep.
CHUTE
Each time a baby is
born
the universe squeezes
itself
through a chute,
the same chute
into which
suicides squeeze
themselves.
Its mouth
is lined with small
iron teeth.
When you bathe your
father
who has become like a
child,
you feel the teeth
on your fingers.
When your father asks
who you are,
it means his legs
have been
sucked in.
For you the tunnel's
mouth is closed.
For him it is open
and oiled.
Credits: all poems first
appeared in Divinity School, published
by The American Poetry Review, (c) 2015.
"Chute"
also appeared on Augury Books blog.
"Fish
Poetica" also appeared in 6x6 magazine.
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