Grandma told me
vanity is a sin
of many single women
while I was innocently
unaware that my uncle
had a secret
till the heat of the day
forced him to reveal
what was under
the covering
of his social deceit
and I couldn’t help
looking
his back
covered in hair
and imagined
my aunt
brushing 100
and I suddenly decided
never to marry
and ran to the water
begging forgiveness
Pollock threw
himself
into his paintings
dripping energy
like heat
from a fine
vodka
till the chaos
of what he felt
left us gawking
unsure of what
we know
to be art
or chicken scratching
and we jealously wish
that in one big bang
amid the viscous
flow of paint
we could tangle our hair
and let
ourselves
out.
That feeling
when your foot
is stuck
and you know
you have to sacrifice
your boot
to the mud god
is fleeting
as summer’s heat
dries up
any proof
that you were brave
enough to
slug through
the mire
of yesterday
to find the firm ground
of today.
You started sleeping in the recliner again,
feet and arms crossed as you lie,
your chest rising and falling
as you catch a quickie nap.
I can tell you’re dreaming
’cause your forehead’s cutely crinkling
while your eyes are twitching slightly
in the sweetest sort of way.
Then the smallest naughty smile
starts curling up your lips
tempting me to wake you
with a tender coaxing kiss.
I ask you who is in your dreams,
and you’d better cross your fingers,
’cause you don’t want to cross me,
if I catch you in a lie.
I am frying
this one hamburger patty
alone in the pan.
Even with a crunching
of freshly ground pepper
and a slathering of ketchup
that is heal of my hand
thumping thick,
it bites.
Because I have piled on
layer upon layer
of onions in crisp white rings,
now taunting halos
of my self-proclaimed perfection.
You tried in vain to teach me,
with recipes and directions
how to cook and sizzle,
and just about everything else,
but I never seemed to learn.
This simple hamburger
could taste even more delicious
if I could just kiss you again,
sucking the mustard
off your mustache,
so spicy and brown
and hold those buns
just one more time.
But I let you leave me.
Fried.
Your hands
press the towel
radiating heat
from the dryer
against your face
the warmth drenching
your spongy cheeks
tipping your head back
dripping sighs
of saturating comfort
allowing you
to absorb it all.
Then come to me
when you’re hot enough
for the two of us
to wrap ourselves
in the cuddling warmth
that only you can radiate.
Set the dial to TUMBLE.
He has a job to do.
Tools, wood, nails, and dirt
are a part of who he is
with the end of his labors
caught up in sweat and beer.
His superior workmanship,
as the evening shadows lengthen,
joins his skill for mending fences
with a layout of our plans.
His gentle roughness
presses on my skin
so I lean in closer,
our breath already building.
He has a job to do.
When it is 95 and so oppressive
that your hair drips at your neckline
and stickiness is the order of the day,
think cool thoughts.
Think of frost on the windowpane
where your fingers press designs
like puffy thumbprint flowers
with your nails dragging crystals
into the lines of your boyfriend’s name
until numbness forces you to stop.
Remember the effort of shoveling snow
with the sidewalk longer
than it is in summer
and your fingers must be pulled
from their individual coats
into the space of your glove’s palm
until numbness forces you to stop.
Think of cracking ice cubes
from the old-fashioned trays
where ice shards cling to the plastic
and your fingernails have to dig them out
until you have enough to for a blender
full of orange juice and brandy slush
and you drink your fill
until numbness forces you to stop.
But I’m not there yet,
so pour me another
and drink cool thoughts.
When I walked into the wheat field
my shoes stirred up the dusty ground
and brown spitting grasshoppers
jumped up and clung to my pants.
I jumped myself and danced
around and around with my arms
flailing against the sky
and I screamed a few words
that would have sent my mother
to the bathroom for a bar of Ivory.
But she had gone to town
and left me to run like the wild chickens
under Grandma’s watchful eyes
which still work good,
unlike her ears.
But I could hear Grandma laughing
as she stepped in the furrows
to call me in to lunch with the scent
of freshly baked molasses cookies,
and even Grandma could hear me drool.
Small cafés are not large enough
to fit the thousand words
that a picture is worth,
so their patrons discuss
every facet of life with an upward nod
of their heads and four simple words:
Hot enough for ‘ya.
They could be describing
the coffee, the weather,
the new waitress, etc., etc., etc.
It is not a question.
Not really even an observation.
Just expected routine conversation
that can be filled in with
any assortment
of interchangeable descriptors
as varied as the menu:
Cold enough for ‘ya.
Windy enough for ‘ya.
Boring enough for ‘ya.
Etc., etc. etc.
And when the plates are cleared
and the bills paid,
they go home and ask everything
that no one wanted to know
with four simple words:
How was your day?
The true quietness of morning
can only be appreciated
by an artistic soul,
the kind of person
who wakes early
with thoughts and poems
and paintings
created in their dreams.
The true light of morning
feels softer as it comes
but sleep-a-beds
won’t know it
or feel its gentle breath.
They only hallucinate
their greatness,
in wishes and in dreams.
They never met Passion
who pulls me from my bed.
In my true dream of morning
I am an artist
showing my portfolio
of paintings done so long ago
that I had forgotten their line
their color, their form,
but in the showing of my work
I feel again the spirit
that lifts me up
on this early morning
rummaging for the right color
to paint the quiet light today.
I breathe the solitude of morning.
The water
at the edge of the lake
is dark and dank
and its pushes
its nighttime hoard
of floating debris
toward the shore.
Your hand
when slowly pressing in
slices the earliest ripples
of sunlight that has
found the weeds,
wet and stringy
that cling
with a slime
that doesn’t come off.
But still you step deeper
the cutting coldness
now pushing your breath
that balls your fists
and raises your forearms
to protect your chest.
And you need a moment
for your breath
to return
so the blood in your skin
can absorb the electricity
of the chill
now coming down
from the crest
of the shock wave.
The mud is oozing
between your steadying toes
and you feel Posedeon pulling,
but it is too early in the day
for death.
So you lunge
your whole body forward
with renewed energy
past the wave and its weapons
that guard the shore
and out into the daydream
that floats in while you swim.
Momma is again reminding me
to clean up my act
so I am filling my dustpan
with bits of broken things
and words I have dropped
or cracked and can not replace.
So if girls were allowed
to scream, I would,
long and loud
and shake the debris
off the edge of the cliff
over looking Chequamegon Bay.
My trash could be picked up
and my screams
resquawked by seagulls
on to passing ore ships
where scrambling deck hands
would stop their swabbing
and consult with their captain
because a change of course
is in order.
They could turn about
and throw me a life line,
if Momma would let them.
But that, of course,
wouldn’t teach me
to rescue myself
with the knowledge
that tomorrow is a new day
with no mistakes in it.
If only Momma realized
that girls trapped in her harbor today,
aren’t allowed to sail there.
The thermometer cracked 104
with the kind of heat that takes you
with laborious steps
to the freezer door
where you take out
a single ice cube
and rub it against your neck
until the drips
converging in your cleavage
darken the front of your shirt
giving you the drooled on look
of the smoldering infant
whining at your feet.
Twisted and wrung
beneath running water
the only clean rag in the house
is given to the child
to suck what moisture he can
and keep his mouth from emitting
that eardrum piercing cry
and your heat puffed hands
now removed from your ears
languidly collect the drips
of condensation
forming on the metal faucet
spreading them slowly
like salon facial cream
over your cheeks
now too weak
to puff a smile.
Gazing through limp curtains
you see the free-flowing image
of dust from the driveway
swirling higher, higher,
forming and hourglass
gone wild, gone wild
swirling up instead of down
slamming down
the window – trapped!
Insanely you reach up
and grab your hair
tearing it away
from where it clung to your neck
angrily pulling and twirling it
up into a knot
securing it with pins
anchoring it firmly in reality
and if it should ever feel like
letting go
it can’t.
You can’t.
There is no escaping
the madness of the heat.