Masterwoman

For Nan Sea Drew

I came of age
in this place
a coming of age
continuing
to come.

A hand at my back
leads me there
A clip
A ship
across the water
A banging drum.

I won't regret
sitting in this sun
eating this croissant.
But I will reject
apathy.
Too many voices
calling--
Go. Feel. See.

When a car almost
hit you in the legs
is that how it went?
I had just told you
about Ephron
getting struck by a bus
and regretting
not eating
her last doughnut.

It wasn't the bus that got her.

I wouldn't mind
if it was the sea
who in the end
got me.

Workshop Marginalia

Just reread one of my comments on a friend's workshop piece. You've really got to love writing workshops. Taken out of context, my quote goes:

"I also like how you continue to build up the Biblical references and the thoughts/anxieties/curiosities about the Holy Spirit. Whom we find out is Pooh Bear! What a cute Heavenly Spirit. God wouldn’t that be nice. But seriously, there’s a building tension throughout the piece. Incredible that you could do that with an old man with  dementia and a teddy bear. Bravo."

you can throw a piece

Golden goblets

the cupboards

held possessions

hung with care 

there.

This is the coolest thing

―no, indescribable

there are no words

so don’t say it.

When melancholia hit

there was nothing to do

but sit 

on the edge and cry.

What am I saying

you could throw yourself

off the side

and you did

you almost died.

We spent the night

nursing you

horrified.

I don’t speak of it much,

do you?

In the morning, 

rode on the back of a motorcycle

to lay in the sun

on a “pay by towel” basis.

Had my picture taken

thank god for glasses

my eyes were shaken.

Threw your hat

into the wake

said goodbye

Lord

Lord

Take this man

Try

And then alone

just beast and being

was it You who sent

such a prehistoric go-between?

to shake him 

from his reverie―

Keep in mind,

guilt and fear

flow from love.

Waters

dark and deep

you can throw a piece

but sink the whole ship

if peace is what you seek.

The day my bracelet

snapped off on the stern

I knew something like this 

would happen.

it haunts

Tonight

the lights are white

making the clouds passing by

look like smoked ellipses.

In a garden

on Elizabeth Street

at twilight

I thought of Copenhagen

and warehouses

and yellow painted chairs

a note scrawled on the gate

I remember you from the future.

There’s a little bar I know

on the sixth floor

you can get as drunk on you want

bum cigarettes

you’ll say

—whoever you are—

at two

I didn’t know

the lights turned off

and then you’ll kiss me.

Asking for my bed

telling me

it’s been so long

I believe you.

You—

from a dream

we’re in the car

was it danishes in Los Feliz that day

or croissants?

I can’t shake the thought

it haunts 

I shouldn’t be here.

(Photo from cdixon tumblr) 

clunk like rocks

no helmet, no lights or socks

suggest destructiveness 

i sat

and talked

and felt good for a while

until i didn’t

i can’t make eye contact

there is a moment

the lingered stare

when feelings pass 

like electric shocks

no

like rocks

clunk. 

at the bottom

loss of air

makes the emotion come out

i hopped on 

and plodded

trodded 

pushed the dirt and sweat and grit

this town has a piece of my foot

and you have a piece of my 

look away

or it starts again

I Can See You Down the Road

My grandfather lived in a mobile home
the kind that sit on the ground and have no wheels.
I used to stand in the driveway
and look through the wooden slats,
the open space,
it was like the place floated.

He moved a lot, but I didn't know him then.

I knew home and permanence

with the option of mobility.

I imagined the house

curving down the 101,

precarious on a large truck bed,

"Wide Load" flapping in the wind.

He did the cooking, bathed me, 

scratched my back in the mornings when I

came into his room and nestled up.

After a few minutes he'd sigh and say,

My arm's tired,

and stop.

When changing, I'd ask him to take his glasses off.

Can you see me?

I wanted him to prove it.

I can't see a thing.

The smell of sheets was a comfort I can still recall.

The sound of the Sixty Minutes clock ticking on the screen, 

however, was not.

His chair leg popped up with a loud creak.

His glasses were thick and smudgy.

In the mornings we walked to the bakery

and ate crunchy, flat pastries.

At the gas station it was Pepsi and lottery tickets.

At the park it was the best climbing tree I've known,

and the friend down the street

who taught me to vandalize.

Her older brothers rode bikes 

and made me think about boyfriends.

A honeysuckle plant climbed up the fence by the trash cans,

which grandpa would walk to every night after dinner.

The white bag of trash 

dangling from his fingers.

There was a weeping willow tree by the pool

where he swam laps on summer days

And the office where Chuck worked,

his English cowboy neighbor with 

two parakeets and a wife.

For such a wanderer, the man liked rituals.

I don't remember him drinking.

I don't know that he read.

He didn't talk much, 

but he smiled a lot

and tapped his fingers on his knee

and people liked him.

When grandpa recounts the years of moving—

England to Canada to Spokane to California—

he lists destinations.

Whole countries and oceans crossed,

point A to point B.

My dad remembers particulars—

boxes,

almost overheating the car on a mountain in Northern California,

and also, 

not having any friends.

A month before he died

we spoke on the phone.

He got lost

called me Sonia,

but he didn't correct himself.

The vision in his head was clear.

"I can see you down the road,"

he said,

"leaning against a wall."