Be Still and Write

You know that evangelical belief some hold where the righteous shall be suddenly taken up? My Catholic heart doesn’t buy it.  Eucharist spontaneously transforming into human flesh and the mother of God appearing to children in Portugal or Yugoslavia or ushering in the rose covered tilma of Juan Diego? All this is true. But righteous humans saved from all suffering as a reward for not having sex before wedlock while loudly and quietly judging the rest of us for who we love or our use of expletives or alcohol? I don’t think so.  What will be ushered in one glorious morning, will be a rapture of the things of man.  All of our egotistical creations will be gone in an instant.  These trees, lined up in our neighborhood can stay.  Dirt paths lined by maples all the same age and height will be a lovely echo of our past attempts to think we can assert order Or that we should.  Not sure if the lawns stay or go, But the truck with the wooden trailer on my street with...

Good Night Twisted and wrung out by the indifference of the day Peace comes now, dropping slow and graceful upon us, Unwinding furrowed creases and smoothing over the anxious jangling left in our ears. Rest settles along our intertwined bodies, its quiet, starry glitter and violet-blue swirls curve into every angle we share.  Peppermint breath Sweet-salt skin kisses Cooling wax melts down into our bones, then turns solid, safe, certain, As drowsy darkness  blinks and blinks again slowly into place. August 4, 2019

The bailiff enters, and I can actually tell he has aged since 2013.  His mustache has more grey, the hairline receding. Before he did not wear glasses. Now he has dark-rimmed square frames. I can gauge the season because his skin is darker here in June, pale in winter hearings.  Always the tan sheriff uniform, radio pinned under his chin, badge glistening gold. He does not smile. He offers Kleenex. Constant through the last six years. Every hearing He watched me       nervous      angry      questioning      confused      crying. Four different judges, but just the bailiff and me. I wonder if he remembers me or others. Does he remember my five year restraining order?      the death threats      the talk of suicide to my two year and five year     old children? Does he recall each woman who has asked the court to sever parental rights from abusive or absent fa...

 I noticed the leaves on my morning walk today. Not their friendly crunch under my feet,  nor the way they scatter unexpectedly under Pepper's paws,  startling her into a sideways skitter before moving back to our straight, purposeful path.  Rather, I noted their sudden absence for about a block in front of me.  It was puzzling to imagine a city planning conversation that resulted in a street with trees that shed leaves, then pause, then begin again.  Until I realized, they had been removed. for half a block before and half a block after a  certain community.  "Santa Barbara" as its tasteful sign announces, offers a decidedly attractive and unwelcoming entrance,  High, square hedges  A small, windowless box with signs that warn,  "15 m.p.h," and "No Soliciting."  An eight foot tall wrought iron gate encloses the homes beyond, protector and sentry, to all those safely beyond the reach of the street with its Toyota Camrys an...

You had never heard of Sylvia Plath until you read about her in a hard-covered, non-fiction book you bought at the airport in Arizona.  The slight mispronunciation of her last name,  the mild interest in how this strange, suicidal poet was woven into a book about miscommunication with strangers. This seemed oddly delightful to me.  You never experienced Plath’s poems, read much too young grief, confusion, raw, open-mouthed pain all there in tiny, neat font on the page, an abstract fear that your happy childhood, your seemingly effortless life could not understand. Sylvia Plath poems HBO movies late at night Those magazines under Mr. Babcock’s bed that you found while babysitting his sweet son only a few years younger than you. I curl my toes around yours, under our warm covers and rest next to you, quiet pages turning, as you peer through your reading glasses at the life of Sylvia Plath neatly placed in context. 

I love you fiercely Like afternoon winds that  Toss the almond dust, Tear palm branches and  Send them crashing onto Robertson Boulevard, Just the way we kissed the last day I saw you Before your flight Hungry Never close enough. I love you patiently As a tree expands Enlarging its circumference, Adding cells upon cells, In silence and slow, Only after the sun has moved from equinox to equinox, Just the way I tried to refocus your jagged, anxious thoughts With our lips. In quiet kisses, Now. Here. Here again. Stray and return. Stray and return. Come back to our breathing together as the afternoon light slips across the leaves outside our window. The trees breathe. We breathe. 4/10/19