the flying man

.







before the inclusion of metal
or dusting of flesh

in the moments just prior to the wicked unwingedness

you were moon soft

you were star high













author's note:
who am i to wish it different?














.

a visit at the river

.





our feet dangle into a silver-slip of minnow

we belong here
with the living things; the blue
heron
the wild carrot

light air clangs; metal to rock





in this dream there are
no black flies, no standard issue belt, no urine soaked chair to place at the road

there is only this great-green space, these familiar waters

and our mirrored hands postured behind us

because i know i am dreaming;
i think in questions only the dead could answer

in a language only this side of the truth would speak

but before the asking
before the deconstruction or burst of light


my mother's eyes shift
change to shapeless wooden things

and her mouth turns a river
filled blackest-black where words are forgotten

and syllables displaced
in a sloppy muck of rock and silt


















m

is it a june storm or my mother's final breath

.












black tar lays flat and long

in the lifeless crease of a slam-shut mouth


inside the dark, open spaces of night




somewhere beneath the crack of thunderhead
and light



a kill-hum

hums. tall grasses bend


and an old tree splits
into the open-faced shock

of daisy- white life

















m

the stillness of passing

nothing moved
not time
nor wintered geranium, dormant in the pot

I slept the dead. inside a stone white cupboard;
feet raised on cement block

door propped

and partly fallen



i slept





a note to him

who is important:

do you remember when you were the bone shaping my skin?








on a metal table
in a different year
cold flakes
floated


curdled in a bowl








but for heavy hands

lacing lug boots
everything was quiet

in those days

men were gods








before bone piled silent
she was a blue sweater

the art of a raised window

the song of linen










i slept the incantation

the loud bang
the shadow stalking my bed


and when a voice called my name
i slept it

too





















m

the god reach

sunrise
he says


is clouded


but for two clear openings

letting light





















m

life after

three across, I plant pink geranium


ma would prefer red
and glen purple

papa's preference
escapes me but i imagine him just happy for the visit

i chatter and pull crab grass
as i have since childhood

brush the dirt from stone
releasing dates and names

my history etched beneath scrub pine

finally, at the base of each slab i tuck a coin
a silver amulet

a rote prayer

in one dream my mother reassured me she had no more pain

i convinced myself it was a visit
as i do when lights flicker or phones buzz

for two years i saved glen's email

he never replied
i never really expected him to

but sometimes, late at night when i write him into poetry; my cursor flips erratically
a strange dance across the screen; i tell him; i know he is here and that i miss him

i figure some day a psychic might say

"they are showing me dimes"

and that's when i'll know the truth of it











m

in this dream i am nowhere near home

a hutch, these dishes,
a milk-glass cake plate
no longer belong to me

in this dream
i am a trespasser


in one room, a skeletal spider spills from a clear vase
and lands beneath the lazy susan where dust clumps and dried insects gather





in another,

a betty crocker cookbook falls apart -in my hand

a tight faucet spits orange


i am thirsty but decide to wait


just inside the back door,
mother's yard coat and a bent rake hang, on side by side nails


the yard
is full of red and yellow leaves

i realize it is fall
i realize it is fall again


in this dream
there are no words- no faceless footfall
no sense of belonging




m