"What Arms You Have Afterward"

"what arms you have afterward."
prodigy. progeny. protégée. 
when i am alone i eat a lot of
salad, pancakes and cheese sandwiches.
what i want now are clear directions - (i'd like to be
as reliable as the dishwasher)
what to say to him,
how to use my afternoon
                        when time is nothing like money
                        and learning matters as much as ever (but is
                        no longer a number on a page)
how count the inches the morning glory vine
climbed, curling around the rail?
how bless the basil     large enough i finally snipped three leaves
today, careful as a baby's first haircut?
what to make
of all the bugs i save and bring outside, tilting my hand
against a leaf until they crawl off?
too much in the closet, too much in the mind. and where to find
a nesting place.



Quote: Carl Nellis, "Feathered"

Undulating

It terrifies me, how beautiful you are becoming.
The forming of your face, turning into itself,
you more and more,
and your eyes knowing things
I don't know yet.
It frightens me.

Like I am losing you already. You should wear ash everyday,
to remind me. To say, "I was never yours to start with,
we keep each other company on the way,
and that is all."

Our Pantheon

Stay with me by the river

I built a little house

there are snakes in the water

there are fields to the south
of the furrow

the rain comes

the snow comes

our house is an open eye

                                   our Pantheon

through which all nature pounds.

We will be cold as stones
in the morning

we will warm 

and move like fish

First of March, 2013

Jesus, You, right here. And me, too.
Because You are welcoming me into something.
Really?
Then show me. And help me believe and come,
all of me, none behind.

Take charge.
Lord, I know you so little. And even though
my every atom is Yours,  I am not aware of You as I should be. Or so
near You. Or so like You. Or so believing in You.
Perhaps I made You up.

Perhaps You swallowed me whole.

Last Leg, 1 AM

Tonight is our last on the road

in a hotel, before the last leg tomorrow. The drive will wear out my Dad,

already snoring again after a second awakening (the first by

my brother and me 

giggling over a nasty pair of ear plugs

I offered him in the dark).

The AC whirs and chills my neck and shoulders 

where I sit tucked 

beside my roll-away, trying not to wake 

the rest of them.

It has been a long day. 

At the Arby’s, twelve hours ago, my brother asked me,

Does today seem wrong to you?  

Mom red-eyed in the parking lot, 

on the phone. Dad without appetite. 

Another surgery. Another ordeal.

Not really,

But maybe I was setting up shields, re-reading eucharisteo,

fastening my eyes on a single leaf whizzing by

to say, “God knows that leaf, that one

among billions.” 

We passed the Georgia Peach, the Shot Tower, like every year

up to New Hampshire from the Florida panhandle.

I was warm and small.

I have been trying to practice Now. Like trying to see my footprint

before stepping forward.

But I can’t see this one, only feel it.

Only take the next step, presently.  Look back and see the others.

Only whisper in the dark as the waves lap,

“I used to be afraid of the ocean.”

I'll be glad to have a cemetery near. No better place 

for an evening walk, a ramble. For making you feel blithely mortal 

and blossom-like,

This is my birthday, and I, like everyone save Enoch,

have a grave somewhere,

Goodnight,

Piglet

How small in my hands,
now dangerously
thin,
feeding,
and rounding out again. Excrement
soft on your soft belly.

I cleaned you, captivated,
for you were a little, lovely thing

like six ropes of clay
like an insect I drowned
in the dishwater-

sentient, terribly alive,
so delicately needing me
and fond of me
for no reason.

Old Rag

Whose mouth
licked up your tip
like an ice cream cone?