. saturday poem written for a sunday

the undergrowth

Sometimes my small sadness,

wound tight in my chest all week,

uncurls itself like a fern frond

and finds the forest lonely.

What’s the rule for sadness,

when there is nothing planned

for dinner, when the chemo’s

made her sleep all day, when

the ships come in with someone

else’s package.

How long do you let it grow?

I used to run down the gully

to hide among the undergrowth

and listen for the night owl’s

hollow call, the coyote. 

My heart was full of fear

and want and greed. I did not

yet know who I would be, or who

I would love, or who would be

taken from me and how.

I only knew the sound of my

father’s whistle, when he grew 

worried and wished for me 

to come back.

When it grows, my grief

is so lonely—

you’re not there.

Whistle and I will let it ease,

whistle and I will come back.

November, November

things I do not recall lending out

What happened to my love of birds.

Here, brushy woods, marsh and bay.

Insect, crustacean. But what happened

to morning? The call of towhee,

the hooded merganser of long runs?

Here is my boot, my pencil. Take alder, 
birch, the forest edge. Leave scattered 
savanna. Here, I am just waking. 
Where are your hands going,

as they move down my back?

October goes too quickly

how to be happy 

Why not sleep heavy through the night

like a child. Why not let myself be mad.

Last night in the bar, my first love’s father

was married. The bride wore slippers.

Why not laugh while crying, as the baby

did twice before he screamed.

Why not try self discovery which is not

the same as loneliness. Why not give

in. Why not sleep heavy through the night

on my stomach, cheeks flush, palms

on the pillow to catch my dream fall.

happy sunday

all the different things you can mistake for a bird

 

Now the trees are a burnt sienna.

As songbirds move north over the city

you return from a trip east with your arms  

full of tomatoes, a new shirt. I am discerning.

The tomato was once said to be noxious

for leaves akin to deadly nightshade.

I don’t blame anyone-- even tonight

there are storm clouds on the radar

while the ground is dry as bone. 

I don’t care whether you see a cloud 

or a flock of birds: when you look at the sky

I see the underside of your chin.

We learn migratory birds burn muscle

for water during flight, not fat, and it is only

the leaves of tomatoes that can kill you.

Look how knowledge doesn’t expand, it

changes. When we met you were wearing

a different shirt, the trees were an asparagus

green, and I was with another man.

Tell me, what will you cook with your tomatoes?

i'm not a player i just crush a lot

coming up later this week: crafts with purpose.

can you tell we're sisters?

i try not to look directly at the sun.

who can resist this face? i guess i will feed him.

house and dog sitting for my parents this week! good thing they like to cuddle. or else i'd be lonely.

a lost poem

I can be glad I am up early

this first morning without you.

I have bought the good eggs

and the good coffee.

I do not miss your constant

checking of the weather,

or your work boots scattering

dirt across the hardwood floors.

I do not miss your heavy

morning sighs.

This is what I like about morning:

What I don't yet know

about the day.

I am content drinking coffee,

not yet knowing if the grey sky

will open, not yet knowing

what I will miss about you

when I walk out the door.

there's something golden here

What I am afraid of

The space between the hedge

and the house. Steep slopes

and spiders. What you murmur

yes to in your sleep.  Dead bolts

and dead batteries. Hour glass

shapes and the way sand moves

through small spaces. Waiting,

and waiting. The carcass with teeth,

the beach the day my tire blew.

The intangibility of these cells,

the gusto of my body’s body.
Mostly, how you sometimes look
at me and I have to look away. 

another poem about a pie

You were at the part of the pie

where you use your knuckles to shape

the crust. You worried about texture

and ratios of flour to water. All the while,

I was staring at your hands. You are

a man whose hands tell exactly

what you did that day.

There is integrity in kitchens too:

knife marks in the counter, creak

of oven, gurgle of ice maker. The pie

could not get in the oven fast enough.

There was flour in my hair, a clapping

in your rib cage. For a moment

we stayed very very still.

i know it well : august lately

chocolate zucchini bread

petunias

new tape on the borrowed Peugeot

my love bird loves to eat

as you can see.

Early Cascade 

Lucia Perillo

I couldn't have waited. By the time you return

it would have rotted on the vine.

So I cut the first tomato into eighths,

salted the pieces in the dusk

and found the flesh not mealy (like last year's)

or bitter,

even when I swallowed the green crown of the stem

that made my throat feel dusty and warm.

Pah. I could have gagged on the sweetness.

The miser accused by her red sums.

Better had I eaten the dirt itself

on this the first night in my life

when I have not been too busy for my loneliness—

at last, it comes.

i'll have half a diet pretzel: T-DOME Do's and T-DOME Don'ts (for mackenzie)

don't wear a shirt or shoes or have problems.

do give good directions.

don't call yourself everybody's uncle.

do wear a twenty dollar cowboy hat and a corona shirt. do sing vibrato. don't lose the keys to your big truck in tacoma.

do have this tattoo.

do bring a buddy.

don't complement your tramp stamp with a tiny leather vest.

don't get this tattoo.

do wear a belt buckle to avoid looking like you are going to a "jack johnson concert"

do let your country/ kenny flag fly. don't let your hair get in the way.

do wear purple.

don't and don't.

do get comfortable.

do get off your butt and sing along.

do stay svelte. do wear cut off sleeves. do introduce your songs with "this one is for that person in your life..."

some people make me want to puke with happiness

gah

river float happy

bah

my bedroom wall is a back drop

the boys weren't in the picture

because we didn't want them in it

for kori

I’m happy today

with poached eggs on biscuits,

saying to you: let’s do the strange

things we would never do.

Like leave the ice cream to melt

on the coffee table, travel

Spain one week with the boy

who will buy you anything,

turn down the job or kiss him

against the door frame

with the neighbors watching.

It’s partly cloudy,

yet your cheeks are flush.

Open the windows and the air  

circulates the apartment.

The walls are whistling,

and here we are again: done                                   

with sadness, our hearts rolled

out on the breakfast table, like

pie crust waitin on filling.

or maybe i'm afraid of losing what never happens

i can't think of titles for my poems anymore

In spring, the kerria ate the rose,

and bush-tits gathered upside  down

and right side up.  But I barely noticed

the gray bodies against all that yellow.

Summer has ripened and you are gone.

It is warm in the apartment

and the forgotten rose has bloomed,

is wafting through the open door.

I don’t know if it is the thought

of you, or the height of the blushing

flower, but my skin is burning,

says I want you here.

Maybe that's why I keep looking

out the window to catch the lone

yellow warbler in the kerria,

which has surrendered color. Which 

ate the rose and gave it up again.

so what if i took a lot of pictures of your dog: my friday in a nutshell

Judge is scared.

Judge discovers Royal

Judge enjoys the park

plants of the pacific

Heart pressed like a lily

in your field guide.

Queen’s cup and pink fawn lily,

blue-bead lily with a wolf’s berry.

The pricked ears of a deer

and a bitter milky taste.

I’m yellow glacier lily,

petal pressed to be permanent.

how i feel this late in june

There is cotton in the air

and a softness about us

like the ears of rabbits.

Every thing

parallels everything:

the cottonwoods let go

their lifted seeds and all day

I remember the smell

of your shirt in my hands.

To think the quiet den

of my heart was only brush

until your mouth half opened—

held my love, your love,

on the tip of the tongue.

There is no room to hesitate,

the seeds have settled.

I am not the same.