Sunday, October 10, 2010


an afternoon indoors
a painful squeezing in the center of my head
i spend a sunday of blue sky and thundering feats of aerodynamics-as-trauma
table bent into drawing words and pictures.

i want a poem. a small gold skinned cross section of me
every intention on display, to hold between breaths.
i spend all afternoon searching
press my fingertips into the firm arch of line over line
my rib ,  willing
i sift with both hands for light green stems buried
eyes upturned passing

another golden hour.

now, mother
today , i dedicate this to you, you are
small like a single grain of rice
like mountain water after washing , milky
and quick with both hands on clay bowls
to feed our red cheeked bellows, gaping in your memory.
what can i gesture to make you sit , back? my closed lips
and heavy shoulders cannot withstand
the persistence of your delayed love
you have waited twenty five years to play out mother, to atone for the weakness in this "style" ,  born
in the hands of women.
and if i could gesture the translation of my padlocked away love to
you , it would spoon from your still soft hands, into the cracks between my teeth.