in the midst of grief

in the midst of grief

such beauty,

surrounded by glory

all the golden saints

watching

this ritual in another language

ornate brocade

wrapping bodies

her absence

moving through time

his wife has died -

is he aware of it?

hands curled upon his chest.

sleeping? reflecting? longing?

finding refuge

in the rhythm of song and gesture

crossing

there are many

embraces here -

the incense and the water

candles and icons

made uncomfortable

by presence

the dance of pomp

and circumstance

who are these prayers for?

the departed?

those left behind?

so strange, the body

so waxen

the singers drown out

the bells

the lists of names –

saints, family –

not alone, not abandoned,

finally home.

dirty words

i want to write dirty poems    

for you     about you     to you

i want to fill them     with four-letter words

to make you blush     or squirm     or gasp

to remind you     that we have bodies

and that bodies     have desires

and that sometimes those desires     surprise us

bodies responding to words     thoughts

let this poem stretch out     along these desires

find a way to insert itself     into the conversation

let each line whisper     into your ear

breathing softly on the heart’s     skin

the skin awaking to this     surrender

each word     entering us     embeds

the scent of encounter     and exchange

the taste of your skin     in my mouth

the weight of your body     in my mind

the wonder     of what words can do

clouds, or fog

it’s just a hint, really. a whiff of acrid smoke

sickly sweet, like you just stepped in dogshit,

and haven’t had the chance to clean your shoes.

i know that smell, and wonder if this is how i smelled

for the better part of a decade – surrounded by a cloud, or a fog –

like flowers, maybe, oblivious to everything but myself;

skin, self-contained. other smells fill my mind:

sandalwood, patchouli, ylang ylang.

sitting in my apartment, sometimes alone

and sometimes not alone. reading, writing,

making art or making love. one way or another,

it was hiding. so many things were hidden.

so many things.

                        i wish i could remember

more about those days. those moments

are fugitive still, they sniff around the edges

of regret, always just out of reach, firing

the limbic system, amygdala and hippocampus

shaking hands and lighting up

the past and present.

gardens

there are too many words, maybe

i don’t have enough of them at the ready.

the beginning always takes such effort -

stringing along the words,

stitching them together

in long skeins across time and

remember me when i am in my dotage

and i no longer have so many words.

the end always comes swiftly, lumbers

among the words, shakes them

like flowers, pulls some up and discards them

in piles, sets others aside

for pressing.

                    if you leave the roots

they often grow again. insistent,

releasing their fragrance,

other gardens calling you to tend them.

simply perform the task of attending,

setting things in order, arranging

words until everything is full.

and stands still.

                         or goes to seed. or dies.

smiling

We were walking towards each other. Your head was down. You looked up and saw me. Smiled. As a reflex. Evidently. Because almost as soon as you smiled, and realized you smiled, you stopped. And I wanted to ask you why? Why did you smile? Was it a learned response? Nervousness? A desire to be liked? I’ve known the smiles of other women. I’ve seen come-hither smiles. I’ve seen smiles born of embarrassment, and a desire to end the conversation. I’ve seen smiles I can fall into, and have.

When you smiled at me I smiled back. I tried not to. Still. I registered your awkwardness. Wondered at it. Should I not have smiled? Should I have smiled more broadly? Did you misinterpret my smile? Perhaps you have known the smiles of other men. Perhaps those smiles came with expectations. Perhaps they showed their teeth, or tried very hard not to. Perhaps the smile is different before and after. What makes you more afraid? The before, or the after? Would that neither of us had ever smiled.