Leonard

Perhaps Leonard can bring me out of it.

Visit me with stories of orange and green,

flowers on the walls,

and pictures of children

with sad, lopsided faces.

A church on the hill,

empty and forgotten,

ringing its bell,

assuring me that

I am

still

here.

Perhaps he could hold my hand

and sing to me

in his deep

New-York-City voice.

Urge me out among the broken glass

and condoms,

and into that dark Chinatown restaurant

with the soup dumplings.

He’s done it before.

Taken me.

Pushed me into beauty

I never knew existed.

Made me feel,

with the flick of a poet’s tongue.

If only the needle

were near me now.

I would set him loose

upon me. 

                                                     

Hathaway

Each day the hurdles come.

The phone calls.

The sleepless nights.

The pull of faces and lives

I have no business knowing anything about.

I sit in the chair.

A twisted wreck of arms

and legs

each one determined to find its way

out

in the opposite direction of the other.

Here at my desk

I listen to the robins’ call

and watch the grass grow taller.

Words I once thought had meaning,

stare back at me

like lost children

desperate

to find their way

home.

It used to be so simple,

sitting and writing,

like picking figs from my grandmother’s

backyard.

Cramming

the sweet purple flesh

into my mouth

and dropping the skins on the lawn

for others to eat.

The Texas sun,

hot on my little girl legs.

My Sunday-school sandals

white leather new,

with the shiny silver buckles

running from fig to fig

as if I were gathering secrets.

My collarbone long healed

from the fall

I took in the 

Bob's Big Boy restaurant. 

Big Black Bird and Little Brown Bird

Big black bird

kills

little brown bird

right before my eyes.

Grabs him,

and snatches him,

and carries him

to the rooftop across the street.

Plucks him

like a worker

in a chicken factory.

Feathers 

fall 

on to the ground below.

One minute alive.

The next dead.

Not the day he expected

to have,  

I imagine. 

Furious

Once again the fuckers won.

You know who they are –

The liars.

The phonies.

The ones who know how to shake a hand and smile.

The self-effacing ones with the secret egos.

The spineless.

The ball-less.

The ones capable of standing before a group

and presenting their argument with calm pathology.

The ones in big cars,

who care more about their children’s Red Wagons

than they do about mine.

The ones who will do anything,

say anything,

to get their way.

I am furious.

Boiling.

Ready to make war.

Ready to roll up my sleeves and let my veins bulge.

Ready to see blood.

Red and black and green.

Colors swirl before my eyes creating a most hideous effect.

Ugly.

Deep.

And dark.

Yes. 

Sweet Margaret

When the silence comes

across me,

it is like a flood,

deep and blue,

taking me under

for hours.

The cup of tea,

the one on my desk,

sits beside me,

hot and foamy,

a constant friend

to ease my journey.

It will be there

when I come up for air,

cold and hard,

all the sweet honey

settled to the bottom,

stuck in one place,

like my grandmother

in her coffin.