Good Friday

you swallow down my vinegar-sour thimbleful of
tiny wrath, as if you deserved it,
as if it were your own.

your merciful silence sends me into fits,
raging sorrow scoring wound after wound
into the record of my scars, reopened.

you bleed too

sometimes i wish you would just
not exist
then there would be no one innocent
therefore no one to blame

go away
sometimes
but please, never leave me alone.

Porcelain

Why do you tell stories about clay pots

When you made me like translucent pearl

Beautiful, they say, and perfectly formed,

Meant for good things,

Offering up delicacies in the golden light of candles

Shimmering on my sides. But then,

They see beauty in inherent flaws:

Not just chipping, but shattering

With the slightest blow, no practical use,

A pretty bauble. You could have made me sturdy

And beautiful in earthier ways, as strong as the mountains

You pulled me from. I could see your fingerprints

In my rough ridged sides, see my color and know my roots,

Take a hundred knocks off the shelf and never break.

But instead, you baked me and shaped me in the fire

Till what you made me was my death.

Nobody thinks that broken pieces are beautiful.

Snow in Chicago

I


You mute the air

And I can open my eyes wide,

Sky and asphalt and naked trees

Dressed in the same gray white,

Soft. You smooth the creases,

Cover over sharp edges and points, shroud

The dirt and broken bottles and forgotten

Socks in gutters. Everyone drives politely, if only

Out of fear and the

world slows

Down.



II

The old homeless woman looks happier than usual,

Though her tennis shoes surely have holes, leaking slush

To soak her only pair of socks. But people are more generous

When they see those shoes in the snow, below her chapped red face,

And almost every car brings an open window and

A handful of cash. She tucks it in her coat so it won’t get wet

And gives you thanks even as you freeze her naked fingers.



III

Young man (black or white?) shuffles along, face hidden in his fluffy hood,

The same worn by the businessman (known only by his briefcase)

trotting to the bus and the old woman (or man?)

Burdened by grocery bags, back to the wind.

Median trees, barely growing in two feet of precious soil,

Stretch endlessly up the fathomless, falling sky,

Each twisted twig a silver scepter. They arch in majesty

Over the asphalt, now a silver carpet, and for a while

Make an avenue of kings.

For one hour, the city shares in a communion of clothing

When you give them clean white robes covering

The filth of collected carelessness.

With Child

I knot the lines of your first blanket,

Child, though you are not mine

I hold your weight in my belly all the same.

Like an unspoken promise, one read in

Eyes and lips and subtle hands,

Are the flutters of your non-existence within me.

I loop and loop yellow yarn for your mother

But really for you, child I have not met,

Wishing you were mine, flesh of my flesh,

Blood of my blood. But you are not,

And so I knit you a blanket

Dreaming of that one whose life

My life will knit together.

Blank Pages

blank pages, you mock me

singing your song of perfect

nothing

pen marks only mar.

dare to write, you chant,

create, you our ridiculous god,

begin what isn't.

but i hear another ancient song

and write what has already been

written and sung and lit into flame,

myself being the perpetuation of

exponential imperfections

multiplying the mysterious workings

of deformities forming

the very flesh of beauty.

Amos 8:1-2

Amos sees a basket of ripe fruit
What do you see? says the Lord
I see a basket of ripe fruit
The time for judgment is ripe
Sweet smelling, shiny-skinned
Juiciness running down between fingers
Like blood on the hands of the murderer
We all pay for the sugary nectars
Under our tongue, turning bitter,
Rotting away our teeth
We cannot speak in our own defense
Our mouths overflowing, full of the fruit
Of our own destruction
I am only saved if you take my plate away
For I can do nothing but eat
What my own hands have prepared
So many dead bodies
Silence

Falling

leaves you float
falling
shocking gold carpet
beautiful in death

tiptoeing softly over
in shiny gold shoes
I hate to bruise you
friends

frozen I soak up your sunshine
as my hopes fall
fluttering
loneliness my constant winter

in death and life
beautiful
if I could only join you
in your sleep

Crabapple Tree

Fruit sweet, mostly sour,
(I can eat more than anyone)
We gather up in black garbage bags,
Not really sure why.
I tell them we will sell them, or
Make pies. Mostly I eat the good ones,
Keeping an eye out for worms.
Once I ate half of one,
The other half wriggling, dying, in the white circle
Left by my last bite.
We built a ladder from old rope
And sticks, even though the tree was small and we could reach
The lower branches. Adventurers use rope ladders, I told them.
It broke while I climbed it,
My wind knocked out on the roots. But I didn't,
Wouldn't tell anyone it hurt. I laughed and said
Oh well. The cold grass felt good on bruises
Anyway.

Patience

First entwining of nervous fingers

A blush and a flutter hiding behind a veil

The child in the womb

Hand-wringing happiness

Shoes bought one size too big

And the cookie jar with the lid on

The growth measurements on the door frame

The bike ride up the long hill

A handful of sand on summer vacation or

The sunrise on Christmas morning

Spring

A fullness filled.