We burn with joy (landays)

We are afraid, and we burn with joy

We sit in the dark, fingers flying over the keys

We etch a lightness out of the weight

The redbuds mock us gorgeously. The deer amble past

Humans hungry for a human touch

Days fall into heaps, weeks are too old to count clearly

Ask the questions! It’s now or never

What keeps you alive? What threads the hours from sleep to sleep?

How does it feel to be suspended?

Holding the world’s breath, how do you really feel today?

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Small pleasures (landays)

There comes a time when the well rings dry When the mothers and fathers live in empty houses When the day turns an unseen color When the letters we send shred themselves to confetti There comes a day when the trees grow tired A time when my bones walk slower than my memory When the signs don’t know how to read me When the comfort I get comes from counting surely down There comes an hour when we just stop short When the world streams by in all its hot cacophony There comes a moment when all is well The pebbles are smooth, the babies are rolling fatly When the roar of the unthought, undone Lets through ribbons of song from the basements and attics

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...

the next time

the next time we all stay inside it will be for love of our cooking pots pencil sharpeners Buddhist gongs ripped-up couches rooster cloths the magnolias will explode hard, pinker than ever but the windows will grow dirty the front doors cobweb over the hinges will rust while we burrow lost in our old old things *** the next time we all walk down the middle of the street we will be moving refrigerators, lifeboats, houses all of the engines gone kaboom and we the elderwives power your world onewoman, onewoman, onewoman at a time on feet, toes, blisters onewoman, onewoman, onewoman at a time with the hum of our babies driving our bellies forward forward *** the next time the airplanes are pulled from the sky watch us pile them into mindbombs telling our unborn selves the story long-ago stewardess pin collections, coloring books little feet kicking the air while we worldsailed high *** the next time quiet wo...

All is burnt. We rebuild.

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