Five Years Gone Read online

Seasonal

  she laughs at me and says

  I’m not a local

  until I bitch about the cold.

  it’s cold enough for a jacket

  and rainy, and I can see

  my breath in the dead of night.

  this is a desert winter,

  with green sprouts outgrowing

  carefully groomed hedges.

  spring’s wet smell,

  autumn’s bite, an excuse

  to wear my favorite gloves.

  every season but summer

  sneaks in at once

  while the heat naps.

  tangerines hang heavy

  above my umbrella,

  lights between the fruit.

  tinsel deer paw at

  stone lawns and plastic

  snowmen never melt.

  on Christmas I’ll sit

  outside and call my family

  and tell them how warm it is

  without snow to shovel,

  without ice to tread on,

  and how the season sneaks

  up on me while my brain

  tells me it’s still

  October. the holiday

  smacks me upside

  my head, leaves me dazed

  moves on toward summer

  Dust on Dreams

  the apartment is small

  and sparsely furnished

  with all the dreams a young

  woman’s first set of keys

  can muster, plus a few chairs

  from a garage sale, a sidewalk

  coffee table, twenty five years

  of books and sketches, toys, plans.

  the painting on the easel

  is half-finished, and a

  thin layer of dust has gathered

  on the dry paint. the canvas

  is purple and blue, hope and

  the sky, slashed with red

  that is still wet.

  she was waiting for the right time

  for her housewarming party,

  until she had seats, until she had

  decorations, until all her friends

  could make it, but her first guest

  was uninvited and the crowd

  here now is not enjoying

  themselves. there will still be

  lots of cleaning up to do

  later.

  Wink

  She wears cardboard wings,

  carefully shaped and kept dry.

  They are perfect for swooping

  over amber fields, golden flowers.

  The land is far more wild

  than she is, blades of grass

  cutting deep and drawing

  blood stark against the saffron

  earth. She only flies,

  watching with tawny eyes

  the travelers below

  and the art they make

  as they dye the color of the west.

  And Next the Leather

  I don’t usually say this

  to a girl on a first date

  but would you please

  kick me in the face again?

  That was hot.

  A Fairy Story

  once upon a time

  a prince fell in love with a

  stable-boy’s keen smile

  like the sun, it made him bloom

  and spring led to wanderlust

  Another Poem About Moving

  one

  last

  empty

  goodbye tear

  at the airport curb

  but I won’t leave the car for you

  get out already and carry your own damn luggage.

  New

  too quiet and too drunk

  clear night, distant fireworks

  aw hell, is that dawn?

  (I’m not lonely, just alone;

  cold, damp, stained but not lonely)

  Stains

  blossoming cherry-

  red in the water, spreading

  like thick summer heat

  wine spilled on silk will never

  come out, like your words, your blade

  Blackbeard’s Closet

  I woke up bloody,

  not bleeding, just guilty,

  polka-dotted with damn spots

  and stains on the bed.

  These bad break-ups

  are going to be the death of me.

  I stripped the bed

  and put her in the closet.

  It’s getting crowded in there,

  too many skeletons;

  I’d better be careful,

  they might push me out.

  I considered a trip to Ikea

  after I cleaned up,

  to pick up some storage boxes

  I could use for photos and ashes,

  something to make

  the closet fit again,

  and fresh sheets

  to replace the stains I can’t get out.

  Buds

  A forest of children

  little girls in dresses,

  boys in sailor suits

  Sunday best,

  hanging from above me.

  The trees are blurred,

  impressionist spots.

  Only the forest of

  pink and powder blue and lavender is clear.

  “Well, come on,” I say

  in my best

  kindergarten teacher voice,

  “everyone grab the rope

  and we’ll get going.”

  I turn away from them,

  grabbing the end of the rope,

  and looping the noose

  over my wrist.

  Behind me I hear a rustle

  of leaves and ribbons, a giggle.

  Then the rope pulls taut

  and I start walking.

  The Eventual Heat Death of the Universe

  a big bang he didn’t hear

  numbed reactions even before

  pain demanded his attention

  flesh gone supernova

  the milky way the blood pooled

  against denim, warming his skin

  fading to a chill

  stars flashed and went out

  as entropy took over

  Crazy Quilt

  Childhood’s a patchwork

  of soft squares, patterns on my bed.

  I’m pulling them all out, one for each year

  until you couldn’t keep the lines

  straight anymore. They’re much too hot,

  even for December .

  I’m staring at the tile floor, trying not to

  breathe too deeply, counting the squares

  in the cold patchwork

  that runs from the nurses’ station

  to the back doors locked in case you try to leave.

  Even that simple pattern seems to confuse you now.

  Maybe it’s a blessing that

  it never gets old for you,

  always a new pattern laid while you sleep.

  You have so few left.

  You call me after your children

  and then your siblings.

  You’re suffering, but I’m selfish

  and I know the only pattern

  of yours I fit into

  is the one left on my bed.

  Easter

  Dad hustling us out the door

  on Easter morning, grumbling

  about our clothes or our attitudes

  or the fact that I was still

  eating chocolate eggs for breakfast

  and my sister hadn’t been to bed.

  We all hated it, and even he had

  no illusions about why we went.

  I fidgeted and complained under

  my breath, the smell of incense

  making it hard to breathe.

  Without him, I make elaborate

  plans to sleep in, crack vampire

  jokes, and end up awake at dawn

  anyway, getting dressed, and

  bitching the ent
ire time.

  Long Distance Bills

  I wake up with

  dry mouth, thick with worry

  and I’m not sure

  why until I notice

  the red x next to

  the date on the calendar.

  I’m too far

  away to do anything

  but wait,

  count time zones,

  and try to pray.

  Step On a Crack

  Counting my steps as I walk

  home in the dark, spacing my feet

  just so and making the occasional

  desperate leap just to make sure.

  Watch those cracks, Mom has

  enough to worry about without

  the ice that keeps me calm breaking

  up and melting to tears again.

  Cracks in the cheap bathroom tile

  and blood on my knuckles, don’t step

  on the shards, don’t wonder

  if my body betrays me too.

  Fooling

  I don’t know who you think you’re fooling

  with a medicine cabinet full of serpents and your wife

  filling little orange bottles with their poison,

  like the doctor can write a prescription for forgiveness and

  I have to hand it over the counter like candy.

  Since you insist, I’ll concede that we are more

  alike than I ever wanted, in myself I see you

  scrubbing the kitchen until I can’t stand the bleach fumes,

  raking the forest floor outside the house. I feel the panic

  that sears across my face and chest, that

  holds me prisoner against the rock as I thrash.

  You kept me captive to your obsessive fears

  until I was old enough to develop my own,

  then wondered what fairies had stolen your

  child away. Don’t wonder. You were the one

  who called the Goblin King, who yelled until

  I locked my door, who handed me off to doctors

  and grabbed me back when they asked questions.

  My world is long-broken. I check and double

  check, the superglue that keeps me together.

  You keep your wife up, leaving her to stand with

  her cup, to catch your poison. I try to burn

  in silence, never willing to follow your example.

  Just Visiting

  A mother asks if you can go home again

  as she and her son pull out of the driveway,

  bound for the airport. She hates seeing him

  off, but loves seeing him. She thinks of

  his birth, surgery, the pain he’s worth

  as she says goodbye again at the airport,

  following along the other side

  of the security barrier until she has to

  give him over to metal detectors.

  She’s back in the parking lot, alone,

  pulling out into the still, chill summer morning

  before she realizes he never answered.

  Wild Things

  leaning a little too close

  a little too fast with the knife

  never quite sure

  how much is too much

  do I believe Hollywood authorities

  with pills to wake you up,

  keep you skinny or sane

  do I trust myself

  I walk under the bridge

  like water, forgiven

  not forgetting the rust-red

  overflowing storm drains

  Scrapbooking

  bare feet, cold rock

  straining eyes against

  construction paper shapes

  a sprinkle of glitter above

  strands of spider web

  catch me, glue me back

  as I try to capture

  a minute, any minute

  permanently