Horizons opened on the summer. Old

Unbroken spells, chants, charms — whatever best

To wish. And all around you, trees are gold;

They’re dappled with the sun low in the west.

The chicken hawk is lucky. Look, it cocks

Its head to look at you. You cock yours back

At him. And then, with widened wings, it blocks

The sun. Tucked in his feathers, all the black

So similar to twilit figures there,

Among the live-forevers, milkweeds, sage;

All stars stuck on the sky like needles. Bear

The fog, the skirt of fog, that hangs like age.

The fog that is the promises of rain,

As figures in the distance writhe in pain.

As time goes by, and we put up our skates

The rink is emptied. Everyone’s gone home.

Outside, a car is running. Someone waits.

The rink is rented, so we can’t just roam

Not like abandoned parking lots with weed-

grown over roads, graffitied signs that say

“STOP.” “SLOW.” Where we take off, and pick up speed.

You, letting go of my hand, go your way.

But then I find you loop around the block.

The glitter left from practice in your hair.

It shines against the streetlamp, and the clock.

The clock, which tells the time I have to bear.

The car is running. Who’s there, I do not know.

But I am not your god. You have to go.

The raindrops slip against the windowpane.

Outside, there is the sun. Pale in the sky,

It beats down with the clouds and makes a stain:

The thin smell of the pavement wafting high

Towards the treetops, where the lush green grows,

those leaves that pant with rain and sweat with mist.

They, nodding, watch the ground where the scent rose.

The ground the clouds had hid yet sunlight kissed.

But I am torn. On one hand, it is gray.

The shadows of the clouds cast on the dew.

But then it moves like nights move into days.

Disapparating on that anxious blue.

A sky so split between a sun and storm.

The sunlight shining on me, fresh and warm.

Within the embryo, a jewelled leg

Sticks out, unfurls its claw, then breaks its shell.

The shell of one unmatched, huge yellow egg

Its thin veneer begins to crack and swell.

The shell breaks open. There, a creature lies.

Its rheumy body bent, with little wings.

It cannot make a noise – oh, how it tries!

With all the seriousness a child brings.

Each breath a gasp, each exhale a small flame.

Each little bark comes closer to a roar.

With each step it comes closer to it’s aim.

It leaps out towards the night where it can soar.

The dragon soars, unfurling in the sky

A twinkle in its brazen, snakelike eye.

All sunlight cannot reach the ocean floor

Instead it stays in sea anemones

Whose tendrils wish to brush the beach’s shore

Its rays soak through those stems, its enemies.

(As it could rule the creatures of the deep,

If not for these.) Below, the lobsters crawl,

And further down what mysteries could creep!

No ship could fathom here enough to trawl.

But bioluminescence will awake.

What light, what lure, what teeth — an anglerfish

Spites sunlight and some prey. The barrier breaks.

Into its maw shrimp pour themselves: its wish.

A dining king, so fit to sneer and rule.

The darkness circling near him like a jewel.

Attacking silverfish with my old broom,

I crush them as they crawl beside the sink.

I scrape them, take their bodies from the room.

I flush them in the bathroom, then I think.

I wonder if I should have used a jar,

Slid paper underneath, then ran outside,

Releasing them somewhere that’s green and far.

If I was still a child, I’d have cried.

Remember how we’d catch those fireflies?

We’d keep them in glass “homes” besides the bed.

When we’d wake up, we’d see — to some surprise —

Those little lightning bugs we’d caught were dead.

We’d bless them, bury them in shredded leaves.

You’d think, when insects die, that someone grieves.

Your faith is fish. So walk out now with me.

The water’s fine. We’ll have a nice, big catch.

They’re teeming at my feet. Don’t you agree?

We’ll net them all. They’ll make a nice, big batch.

…And you’re afraid. I know. I understand.

Believing needs the brave. What could go wrong?

What if you drown – it doesn’t go as planned?

And all because you sighed and went along.

But faith is fish. Sometimes it fills you up

Sometimes it bites and drags you down to hell.

And sometimes, yes, it scatters. But God’s cup

Is overflowing like an endless well.

While it floods to the sea, your full net reels

As prayers unanswered flip and nip your heels.

When you and I were standing at the well

And you said I had husbands that weren’t mine

My face went hot with shame, my little hell

That burns me as I live. But you were kind.

You urged me to repent. You broke my sins

As water in a bucket that I haul

Weighs me with memory and splints my shins

Until you throw it splashing on the wall

But water cleanses. Here you, smiling, stand.

My sin has warped the world like soaking wood.

Yet you forgive me, taking my rough hand,

Reminding me I can still choose the good.

You turn to wine the sin of who I am.

My temple sacrifice, my paschal lamb.

I’m made to worship You, but oh, I sin

I want my sin to work just like a clock

With every vice a cog, each lust a pin

All tucked behind this face, as You I mock.

As if I had created the whole world.

As if I had divinely written Word.

As if, within my machinations furled,

I had the smallest inkling of a bird.

But real birds fall, and everything in air

Lies only at the mercy of the sea

Just like the Flood, where You had made each pair

As sanctified and safe as safe can be.

And though you hung each unrelenting star

You did not see her singing at the bar.

And oh, I sin. I see her standing there.

I marvel her. It’s like I am a man.

I watch the strobe lights filter through her hair,

And muster up the courage that I can.

She’s beautiful as rain, and how she sings!

Her voice is smokeless fire. I am ash.

So what if all the punishment this brings

would have me screaming, sobbing at each lash?

As Egypt falls, and Pharaoh meets the sea

Submerged in all the sin of what he’d done,

So too am I no drier, scattered free,

A shaken urn below the ocean’s sun.

I shrug, and wait for righteousness to pass

My gaze fixed on the bottom of my glass.

The bottom of my glass reflects a light.

What is her voice? A jinn or satan there.

And You I love, with all my soul and might.

For You made her, so patently unfair,

So parted from these waters of this earth,

So far from me, like heaven, beyond reach.

And though I question what this all is worth

I hear the angels singing, each to each.

They don’t make clocks, or drink, or marvel girls.

They don’t do anything, but worship You.

They take their wings in terrifying whirls

And catapult themselves in perfect blue.

But humans have a many-fingered brain

They sometimes slip while running in the rain.

The carpet’s soft. It rests against my face.

The dust motes play within the sunlit air.

I worship You, here in this lowly place,

The light and veil a cover for my hair

As You are covered by this windowpane

O You who split the night from star and day

Who runs the thunder through the unkempt rain

And forms us all through mud, then dust, then clay

And I’m clay here, clay for Your hands to form

Mud to the touch, and dust like in this room

Dust thin against the light, so stale and warm

It knits itself against the window’s loom.

My eyes are open, focusing on You.

As if somehow, some way, they can see through.

Montana, where the day goes haywire

It whips its clouds on frenzied sunlit plains.

Those nowheres, borne with clouds of shrouded fire

White sulfur skimming ground with shadowed rain.

The sun is playing dice with snake-eyed spit.

Collects his cumulonimbus black chips.

Casino nights of starlight yet unlit.

This fiery house is threatened with eclipse.

Behind our train’s pale tunnel of a sound.

Some fences bow. A farmhouse disappears

I see a heifer lie down, flick her ears.

She guards her young, who safely sit around.

More clouds, more brewing mountains sunlight yields.

More empty roads. More empty, broken fields.

Chicago is a feast of tulip heads:

These purples, yellows, reds. We walk these streets.

Each one has blocks with crowds of flowerbeds.

These tulips hide. Their flowers fold in pleats.

These tulips cannot see or feel or hear.

But even then, I’ll show them. With this pot

I’ll bring them places far, and strange, and near.

Like Chinatown, where painted dragons flare

their noodle-whiskered nostrils. Tulips shrug,

for tulips cannot hide or run or care.

They only know their bed our hands had dug.

That sacred space we hollowed out in soil,

As Chinatown with steam and meat and oil.

I swear it started off that I hit “play.”

But now it’s buffering, I can’t rewind

I’m sitting here and watching this all day.

This buffer is the buffer of my mind.

This buffer is the buffer of my mind.

And all the TV is is one blank stare

But now it’s buffering, I can’t rewind.

And all I wanted was to watch the Bear.

Sometimes I’m like this too, I pause to think.

My thoughts take time to load, like the TV.

My brain goes numb, and then it starts to shrink.

Oh what an awful way for life to be.

And now it buffers still, I can’t rewind.

This buffer is the buffer of my mind.

Her mind is clear. The birds call through her head.

The sun sets on the woods. The cameras hum.

Behind the stand, some viewers make a bed.

But others stand on tiptoes; their minds thrum.

Some, even watching TV, breathe and wait.

Enraptured in that cinematic stare.

So stupefied, yet, even at this rate,

The golfer, straddling the ball, stands there.

The wait’s so long, it feels like an attack.

But bated breath is better. Time to sing:

She draws the driver up behind her back.

And there she goes — her long and mighty swing

The ball shoots high, then far beyond what’s seen.

It lands somewhere along the shining green.

The soldiers only did what they were told,

But why not have some fun along the way?

A king is just a coward clothed in gold.

And poor pretenders sold by what they say.

So let it be with Jesus, Prince of Fools,

Who spoke of hypocrites yet died in vain.

A carpenter who gave away his tools.

A widow giving Heaven coins of pain.

But even after stripping all that’s left

And nailing God against a dying man.

These soldiers take some time with simple theft.

And take whatever bandages they can.

Those purple robes forgotten, left to fray.

Another criminal, another day.

The manger has a special trough tonight.

And angels come to see it, yes. But you?

You’re far away. You see me glowing bright.

You follow me, a compass shining true.

You hold your gold and frankincense and myrrh

And shepherds see me, too. They watch and wait.

The trek to Bethlehem a gleaming blur.

“O Star, what is our people’s chosen fate?”

But I say nothing, leading you along,

You hold your offerings tight in your hands.

As angels gather near us in a throng.

There’s Bethlehem – right there, above the sands.

There’s Bethlehem – right there, before your eyes.

Why are you shaking? Ha ha. Aren’t you wise?

I think of you sometimes when I’m alone

As I lie down and let my eyelids rest

You are the only one I call my own

As surely as the sun sets in the west

As surely as it rises in the east

And even if you left me here to rot

I could not love you less — not in the least

If you have hurt me I have long forgot.

But I remember everything I’ve said

It cycles like horizons in my mind

As I lie here awake stretched on this bed

I wish I was a mother who was kind

Your memory of me will be a curse.

My bedpan’s full. It’s time to call the nurse.

The coffee sits while wafting bitter smells

The porcelain of it conceals the black

A black like oil in an untapped well

Besides it, typed-up papers in a stack

behold my rash despair. It burns my tongue,

alongside all the taste of coffee’s drip.

I percolate with dread, then, rung by rung,

Climb up my deadline’s edits sip by sip.

But time is climbing too. When I look up,

Those pastel colors rise up with the sun.

Disgustedly, I drain my coffee cup.

I see my deadline’s past, and I’m not done.

I sigh, and slump against my broken chair

Red pens and Post-It notes stuck in my hair.

As rattled breath comes after rattled breath

I think of dish disposals in the sink

And oh, the smell! Like skunks, manure, and death.

The dishes languishing within the stink.

Your scent will be thick too, of old perfume,

The lilies in your hands, that lacy box.

As all these wolves in black throng in the room

When all you asked for Christmas was some socks.

I’ll be okay. I won’t be left behind.

Just like a sock gets lost, there’s one still there.

You’ll be with me. You’re always on my mind.

I love you more than you could ever know.

Go towards the light. It’s fine. You can let go.

When water flows against my hands in prayer

I think of You. When I go on the grass

With callused feet, I think of You. When air

and sunlight dye my face, it comes to pass:

I think of You. When fireflies invade

the dusk, (when light!) when geese erupt in caws,

when blankets crush beneath us in this glade –

Some knowing, sealed within me, gives me pause.

But hands must do, crocheting with blue yarn,

Or pulling, gently, weeds. Or making jam.

Or hoisting, all together now, a barn.

Or frying eggs. Or boiling a yam.

I pray to You, with all these life’s demands,

the water flowing softly through my hands.