Fish and Chips

Six senses and you could not see the net
that pulled you from the water.
What a waste of 450 million years.
You were perfected ambition before mammals birthed or
plants grew.
Those ampullae giving such sensitivity,
an ocean in each pocket of flesh,
a world of electricity
sliding through reefs of ancient nerves.
Smooth and toothful you have no use for words,
you are water, not air,
feeling those fields, fish flesh,
suspended in the sea.
Your slick oblivion is no match now for thumbs,
boats, bait, plastic and hunger:
how little you can see.

They fried you in vegetable oil.
You have no use for vegetables.

Dawn

dawn arrived
like an old cowboy dragging into town,
whip-thin and alone.
Asking Miss Kitty is this seat taken
before sliding in for another shot of whiskey.
Already the fog in the fields is gone,
the dew hanging on the first tomatoes is turning crimson.
The world has been set in motion,
the sun a tumbleweed on dusty streets,
that cowboy with his buckskin face
has checked each bullet in his gun.

North Campus

It is snowing
and the white, unbroken canvas of North Campus beckons to me.
Everyone I ask is too old to play in the snow, they give old excuses.
But you agree, we race outside, time stops in the cold.

We write a giant H in the shallow snow, frenzied and fast,
dragging our feet.
Smiles ricochet from your face to mine.
Next comes E. You lay out the lines and I follow,
as I always do, to reinforce your words.

I want to fill my mouth with thick snow like I did when I was young.
I want to throw snow at you until you laugh.
I want you to kiss me.

We move on the L, flakes melting on my hair and your flapping scarf.
Now P, the hardest one, a giant curve, chasing itself.
You are late for play practice but we persevere, limping madly:
Arctic hunchbacks, two crazy Tiny Tims chasing one another.
Then with the exclamation point finished, one last look and it is over.

Tomorrow morning everyone will look down from the third floor
and see what we have done.
Our work of art, the letters that can be read from space
though you can not read me from five feet away.
We have written HELP!
but no help comes.

2003

Snow or Sleep

Nearly five am

I say I’ll be in class in five hours,

You say you’ll be asleep

(curled in forest-green sheets-

tangled in a thicket of slumber)

Asleep, you say, and dreaming of me

(jolted awake into a world of white-

wet socks and textbooks)

You’ll send out a dream-thought to visit me

here…and you press a hand against the warm

ski-slope of my neck just below the ear…

In the winter-bright morning

(a fleece blanket of snow-

more beautiful than cold)

With an intake of clear air I feel the pressure of your dreams,

(a reminder of what you wish you could share-

but not exchange)

and I wonder who got the better deal.

Spinning

Arm in arm

we stride beneath the bright grey roof of an early winter sky

(cold enough to turn our cheeks red but

not cold enough to complain about).

Close together,

our long wool coats swirl, brushing together at the knee.

We move swiftly

until suddenly you stop and drag me around

once, twice,

two spinning stars linked by elbows.

We laugh, open-mouthed, at the thrill

of brisk air and sudden movement.

Jan 2005

Two Days

I went to your house the other day

(I got there early)

and made friends with the cats.

We laughed

and stayed up late

and watched a scary movie (that wasn’t very scary).

At 2 o’clock we went out to look at the sky.

We watched for shooting stars

(there were three).

There were no mosquitoes, that night,

the sky was an impossible black,

the grass was cold (and wet).

We didn’t want to go to sleep

and in the morning we didn’t want to get up

(but the sun made us).

2002

The Crocodile of Time

The crocodile of time

Eats a hand

and always comes back

for more.

One last cup of coffee

in the raining city

- an arm -

One more game of pool

- an eye -

Just five more minutes

on the plastic phone

-a leg –

All add up to an individual eternity

- a body -

The crocodile returns

but cannot crush

a flying soul,

free of time and place,

pick and choose

the pirate ship

- a life-

1998

Spanish Rose

I know you really like your brown-eyed Spanish rose
You’ve never been to Indiana, and man it really shows.
So what about the Germans, what about the Poles?
And way up north in Stockholm, those Swedes have got some soul!

You blew off south-east Asia, you skipped right by Peru
It didn’t count when you whistled at that girl from Timbuktu
You even had the balls to say that you weren’t missing much
And so I know it’s obvious you’ve never seen the Dutch!

You want exotic beauty? Well here’s the place to start,
Those of us with Irish blood have got some Irish heart!
They never made a song for me, they never even tried,
Cause they won’t believe that I’m a gypsy even if I lied.

You just lost out on Portugal in your pursuit of Spain;
If you don’t quite get it, the New Yorker says it plain,
Say goodbye to Egypt, yeah say goodbye to France
You’ve been singing to the wrong girls and now you’ve lost your chance!

5-5-03

Kit

Christopher Marlowe
Get out of bed
Put on your shirt
Soon you’ll be dead.

Christopher Marlowe
Pick up your pen
Write a few lines
You won’t read them again.

Christopher Marlowe
Out on the town
Live for your art
Die for the crown.

Losing Their Legs

They say that whales were pig-like creatures,

back in days of old.

And so I have to wonder,

what were the thoughts of that first pig-beast

that found itself so suddenly in among the waves,

alone, legless,

staring at it’s land-locked cousins.

Did it know it had escaped the frying pan,

the barbeque, the sausage egg mcmuffin

(but not the slaughter).

And if I lost my legs, suddenly

would I find a home in the ocean?

Becoming sleek and barnacle-encrusted,

huge and eerily grand.

Or better yet, what about all the veterans

who returned home from their foreign wars

wheelchair bound and crippled in this world,

Could they, already grizzled and far too wise,

grow smooth and hydrodynamic,

finally complete without their legs?

They say it was a gradual change, that primeval loss,

not a sharp shock of shrapnel,

But I still wonder about those ancient veterans of the land.

June

Once in a blue moon we find ourselves standing naked together.

Today, between the beach and high bluff, a grove of cottonwood
stands head-high, springy branches less cover than we choose to see
as we swap swimsuits,
struggling with sandy snaps, sunburn, secrecy.
Your tan limbs guard pale flesh,
yours and mine.
Sharp grass in the six inches between our feet,
breathless smiles reflected before we look away,
shocked by circumstance.

Of all the things, you say above the hush of waves,
laughing at the blue moon past when
your parents made us bathe together,
barely looking, adolescent and ashamed.
Remembering how we showered,

how we shampooed,

how we promised

to never tell.

For Caitlin, 2007

No Regrets Green Dress

Dancing like Elvis
in a green dress,
blue lipstick moves wildly.
I want to be the freckles on your skin
as you carve the edge of the desk
with the curve of your smile.
I want to see what you see,
to attend the party that never stops
and maybe hasn’t started yet,
feel the dance flow from my heart
to my hips to my knees,
looking great in a green dress.
I want to swim in your thoughts,
to laugh hysterically at one word,
tears flowing from starry eyes
and melting blue lipstick,
to dance like Elvis with no regrets.

For Caitlin, 1998