Plath

Apprehensions in the morning
Cold bites, slip set collar
And duck my head down.

When do I sleep?

Circles dark
Eyes sag
Plum purple

Remember the mystic?  Memory
Does the cobblestone know
My footsteps?  My boot heels?

A gigolo
Gives me aphrodisiac eggs
He smiles sex
I lose my courage and
Shut up

Who will hold my tongue?

January 2005

Revolutionary

Ruminating upon the past,
all domestic pleasures are absorbed in,
as it were, a secondary god,

to preserve one of the
fingers of a mortified hand.
I silence every murmur
and the friend of my heart.

I have not felt in a humor,
I had taken up my pen.

The eyes of our rulers have been closed.

Whilst the building is in flames,
very little has been done
to secure the harbor.

January 2005
found poem
Letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, 1776.

Gulf of Disparity

Bay of Resentment

Elephant Country
Point Elusive

Cote du Privilege
Cape Avarice

Unilateral Shallows
Dim Harbor

The Isthmus of Indifference

Gulf of Disparity

January 2005
found poem
"P.S.", Mother Jones, Jan/Feb 2005

butter river

butter skin
butter hands
smooth as water
in waves

onto the rough
sandy shore

butter arms
butter legs

wide like
Mississippi

hot river
messy river
sassy river
flowing river

come in
the water is
fine

January 2005

six words

she shivers; the wind cuts through her filmy scarf, a straight edge
she complains, but snubs the hand-knit wood, given as a gift
she accepted it with a squeal, and smiled, a mouth full of sugar
she flipped her hair, hung it up in her closet
she resented her sister for knitting her an ugly scarf

she takes short, cautious steps on the slick sidewalk
she fears that she may appear clumsy
she imagines, sometimes, that her life is a movie
she is always the star, never supporting
she likes to sing the soundtrack to her friends
she laughs, shows how clever she is
she doesn't see the danger in this

she finally walks into Espresso 22, with her sugar smile and ice eyes
she asks me to spot her money for a latte, and any quarters for the meter
as we hug, i want to say no

January 2005

brother

your hair got long, shaggy
poster boy for the rock star handbook
shoulders so shrugged
shoes so snappy
guitar strap in your hand
you're perfectly happy

to cross that line
roll those eyes
go, go sing on the stage
with your backstage passes
your straight edge lies

you talk a big game
all hypocrites do
stone up your face
make rules to tame

stop smoking, stop using
oh, just like you?
this is no contest
no sibling race.

see, see that girl
go hold her so tight
leave me sitting, legs crossed
in the pew
with candlelight.

grow, grow up
cross your arms and walk away
shirk me off with a sidelong smirk
sing rebel, rebel and way
to that sarcasm.

a prayer doesn't have to be to God,
goddamnit.

private to public
peace in family

January 2005

Altar

I arrange the tea lights across the desk,
And the blown fuse has transformed it to an altar
In Spain.  I am a praying heroine that I've read of in books.
My purple terry cloth towel turns to a shawl, and as I light the incense
Clean hair drips wet on my bare shoulders.  I shiver
For warmth and hungrily sip my hot tea.

I grip the olive green mug full of chamomile tea
Hard, even though I burn my fingertips.  My desk
Fills with candlelight and warmth.
The heroine approaches the altar
And her hair smells of rosewater.  The incense
Curls around the pages of her books.

Hymnals birth from the books,
Whose authors are saints.  I look at the tea
Lights all in a row; the incense
Is drunk and heavy, flirts over the desk
And dances barefoot on the altar
With the flickering wicks, reflecting warmth

Onto my bare shoulders.  Its warmth
Is a prayer for the books.
Fire, to Steinbeck, patron saint of my altar.
Patience, to Thoreau and the tea
Lights wink in kneeling reverence on the desk.
Imagination, to Carroll, and the incense

Curls up into a smile.  The incense
Smiles at the book prayer, its cinder warmth
Floods the desk.
The golden face of Buddha laughs from a book
Cover.  I gulp my tea,
Deep, and ponder an icon over the altar.

This is my sanctuary, my altar.
I don the shawl and light the incense,
I compose each prayer as I ignite the tea
Lights, big enough for a blink, and consume the warmth
Of the imagined red votives; Spanish heroine of the books.
Tea lights all in a row--four, then six more on the desk.

My desk is my altar,
My books are the hymnals and the incense,
Curls like warmth.  Joni strums in Latin as I ruminate my hot tea.

Sestina, January 2005