Oratory

mango (a found poem)

place (slender) mango
slice exposing
ends

pare away
(exquisite) remaining
bits of skin

slice (perfumed)
flesh make
two rounded shapes

without peeling
slice (precious)
close to the pit

on both sides
cutting (abundance)
cubes of mango

expose flesh
without biting
(sweetness) skin

bend (tongues) fruit
backward pushing
up under

make (shining) bow
mango still
attached to skin

mix papaya
pineapple (blossoms)
kiwi sugar lime

serve (divine) mango

   

March Sonnet

The full moon glides across winter's night
as February now concedes to March,
the month between the seasons, fickle skies
that now are mellow, now are cold and harsh.
The crocus tentatively tests the air
that taunts with whispered hints of summer warmth;
the daffodils, the tulips, debonair,
all toss their yellow heads with wanton charm.
But winter only rests, it does not sleep
and bears still hibernate in mountain caves.
The snow will come again, and cold and deep
will bury woods and gardens many days.
So treasure this fine darkness. Take your time
to sleep and dream till March makes up its mind.

 

March ThawJuneau, Alaska

The first bear came down from
the mountain today. Porcupines
graze by the trail. 

The air tastes of the forest
trying to bloom. Icicles melt, quick
percussive drip off the eaves.

On the high New Mexico desert,
your ashes and bits of bone
rest pale in the red dirt. 

I bring home hothouse daisies,
tulips, daffodils in green
buckets.  Rain falls, falls.

   
 

Mariah Means Death in Italian

The first child, by her naming, split
the family, Italian grandmother
against German

father. Sixteen years now, she sits
in her grandmother's room, remembering
summer visits:

the dark house; her grandmother in
a white slip in the Cleveland heat; the smell
of Brach candies

and Pall Mall cigarettes. The sound
of the screen door. Mariah's grandmother
calls her by her

mother's name. She begs for one more
cigarette, tells the family secrets,
swears Mariah

to endless silence. Mariah
closes her eyes, listens to the murmur
of night nurses.

She hears the screen door swing. The old
woman grips her hand to aching. She breathes
that city heat.

   

Monday Afternoon

The air is filled with cottonwood
seed. The black locust blooms white.
It casts its sweet orchid scent
across my face.

While women wait, they make
up their beds in flannel and lace,
count the moon, tend their gardens.
They put roses in glass bowls.

Yesterday, a loud storm, trees
talking together in the wind.
The river is high this year.
I sleep between cool sheets.

Women wait for men, for children,
for dough to rise, for rain.
They measure the corn against
their patient legs.

Finches and grosbeaks quarrel
at the feeder. Three fat squirrels
perch on the fence, eating corn
from their tiny hands.

Women wait together. They sit
on wooden chairs, shelling peas
without counting. Their soft words
fall into mixing bowls.

I've rearranged the furniture.
I am dreaming again of glaciers,
bears, and old lovers. We meet
skin to skin.

Women write in their diaries
of common things, the lightness
of snow, the height of the corn,
a streak of green at sunset.

This morning I walked across the stone
bridge, thinking about surrender, grace,
redemption. Swallows chased insects
in the sky above me.

Women wait in their beds, in their
gardens, beneath a sliver of moon.
Women watch each day fall
from the shell into the bowl.

One swept past me, ruffling my hair.

   

Montana Autumn

The fires have ended. It is a different
life. My neighbors climb through black
forests, green trying to grow new
willows. I wake with a wet face.

Morning peers through the shutters,
narrow ellipses of light. It paints
the white walls whiter. A shattered skin
of ice on the birdbath. Everything

is shutting down. The hummingbird
comes for the last honeysuckle blossom,
an iridescent whir in a pink-fingered hand.
Pale roses in the sheltered garden soak up

the briefer light, cast it back into early shade.

   

moon

the moon is never
out of  fashion

pregnant belly
curved blade
ladle bowl

pulling the ocean
& our own red seas
sparking darkest

lunacies ~ the moon
is never retro

The Neighbors Debate

When discovered by the social worker,
the yellow rabbit was nibbling blooming
dandelions, violets and clover
on the neighbor's lawn. The circling

cats did not disturb it. The rabbit hopped
up to the cats and touched twitchy noses.
The cats dashed, lickety-split, and dropped
back into hunting-jungle-tiger poses.

The neighbors schemed. Caught and caged,
unperturbed, the rabbit washed its face.
The prison guard said "Let it go."  "Not wild,"
the social worker warned. "And think, the child

who lost it, crying all night," the day-care
worker sighed. The rabbit combed its hair.

   

The Next Day

I wake in pale light. Swallows
carving the sky, and in the distance
the raucous voice of the crow. This
long day opens out before me.

Dreams flee. I have forgotten
how to hold them. A little sugar,
a little salt. Wine in an etched glass.
Green grapes and a pear's soft curve.

In the garden, I eat an apple
and cheese. The apple gone soft,
too long in the bowl. I feed
the brownish half to squirrels.

The cheese is hard, speckled
with mold. I cut away its crumbly
skin and pick at the rest. I wanted
crisp sweetness, cheddar's sharp bite.

I eat these. They are what I have.

   

On Being Evacuated From Alberton,Montana, After A Chlorine Spill

horses bleed from their nostrils they are skittish and red-eyed & they try to shake it out of their heads they try to outrun it children turn on strange mattresses their pet birds die