The Cup

She poured hot coffee over a dash of cream
And watched it surge together like
Storm waters and sand.
She stirred methodically, slowly,
And took a tiny, cautious sip
From the plain, white cup.

She selected a peach from the bin
And gently pressed her fingers
Into its flesh
To ensure that it had a bit of give,
Not too firm to bite, and
Not so soft to bruise.

She sliced the fruit off the stone
With a small paring knife,
And one by one
Placed the wedges in her mouth
As they fell,
Cold and sweet and rife with juice
That rushed into her body
And her blood.

She took another, deeper mouthful
Of coffee,
Yet it had cooled.
She heard a stirring upstairs, and
She sighed.
Spooning some fresh grounds,
She began to brew a new pot,
Drawing his cup from the shelf.

She sat down again at the empty table,
And cradled her cup, now cold, between her palms.

She drank in the last quiet moment of
The day to come.
There was very little coffee left in the jar.
There were no more peaches left in the bin.
There were only a few drops of cream left in the pitcher.

They would drink black coffee
Hot and dark and strong,
Scalding their lips and
Awakening them both from the
Long and roiling night.

Perfect

I would say it was the perfect bar,
Smooth, dark, evenly grained wood
Small, tucked into a quiet corner,'
No music, save the sounds of the street outside the
Window nearby, thick and clean and protective,
Only two stools, high but steady,
Upholstered in dark, skin-soft leather
Bartender dressed in crisp, brilliant white and
Deep, stainless black,
Ready to take our order,
With a slight smile, but no comment.

I would say it was the perfect drink,
Served ice-cold in a tall, slender glass, but
One that curved in at the top, rather than out, so it
Held the liquid intact, as we toasted and sloshed it about,
And retained its icy chill without frozen bits
Interfering with the acrid snap of the liquor,
The hint of citrus tang of the lime,
And the barest kiss of vermouth.

I would say it was the perfect toast,
One with no words,
Just the rims of glasses touched,
For a second,
Eyes looking into each other,
Which is always painful and powerful,
As it uncovers the soul.

I would say it was the perfect kiss,
That followed the toast,
One lasting only a minute or so,
Under the averted gaze of the bartender,
Who pretended not to notice,
Lips warm and soft, not pressing,
Tongue sliding across mine, not engulfing
Mine, and
Just enough, just enough, to make me
Feel that there was more.

I would say it was the perfect night,
Walking out of the little bar, onto the
Bustling street, the busiest street in the world
They say, one where people stroll back and forth and
Back and forth again just because it feels good to move
This way, and to watch and wonder.
We walked up and down,
Your hand touching mine softly, occasionally squeezing,
But not binding, and I felt
Your body press against mine through
The thin fabric of my coat,
Too thin to guard against the sudden breeze that must
Have come from the sea nearby, but
Not so thick that I couldn't feel you.

I would say it was the perfect moment,
But then the night ended,
And your hand let go of mine,
Without a look
Or a kiss
Or a word
And then
It was over
You walked into the darkness of the night,
Looking back for just a second
With eyes that averted mine
Like the embarrassed bartender
Who saw something he felt was not his concern
And you were gone.

I felt the cold breeze that comes from the nearby sea at that moment.
There was nothing but the thin fabric of my coat to protect me and
What was left of a perfect martini and
Nothing else but
The faint, thin promise of something possible,
Possibly unlikely,
Yet perfect,
Yet to come.

Valor of Tequila

He was a cocky man, full of
Pride due to his rank and reputation.
Obligated by prominent friends, he said
He'd give me an hour.
We met for drinks at the trendy bar, all
Black and red, leather and lacquer,
Bustling and brash.
He looked me up and down like you would
A standing lamp in a department store.
I guess I passed the first step, so we
Sat across from each other to make small talk.
Gin and tonics, please.

I probably didn't give a shit one way or the other,
For he was like a million other guys,
All full of himself and not very charming.
But he had all the on-paper attributes that
I knew I was supposed to like, and as he relaxed,
And as the gin did its nasty little tricks, I grew to
Like him well enough.
Our conversation grew more entertaining.
He said he was surprised that I was interesting and
Could talk about sports, so he suggested
That we order food.
Second test passed.

After we ate, he drank more, and became more enthused.
He was having a great time with me, he said.
It was so much more than he expected.
(Obviously my advance PR needed work.)
He wanted more, to do more.
He had seen a famous but shabby club nearby.
One he had always wanted to visit.
I went there often, I said. I was
Surprised he'd never been there.
So we walked over, and up to the bar.

As the band began playing, the bartender
Asked us what we'd like to drink.
I ordered a beer, but my date pounded his fist
And yelled that we must have
Shots of tequila!
Shots!
He said again.

Now, I rarely drink shots of tequila,
Because it's the sort of drink that
Takes you from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds and
Turns you into a sloppy mess, so
You had better be drinking it with close friends.

This was not one of those situations.

I declined, but my date, angered, drank three shots
In short work.
He began acting like a man who had been
Locked in solitary confinement for twelve years
With only a slit of a window to the outside world
And his meals slid through three times a day,
Suddenly released and unleashed on the world.

He was no longer the buttoned-down and
Buttoned-up attorney at law with a
Receding hairline and oddly wonky smile.
He was a man of power and fire!
In the space of two minutes
He turned into an out-of-control,
Screaming, grabbing, raging nightmare.
And I was his date.

I had the distinct displeasure of pulling
His hands, mouth, fingers, knees, tongue, teeth,
And just about anything else he had at his disposal,
Off me and out of me and away from me,
And wondered how I could make a dash.
His words, once guarded, turned revealing,
But harsh and attacking.
My eyes darted around the crowded room, and
Saw familiar faces that
Avoided mine, buried in assumptions.

The best chance, I felt, since pleading, reason and demands
Did me no good, was to
Suggest more tequila.
He was all for it, and it did the trick.
My trick.
Instead of giving him more valor,
It put him right on his ass.
And into a cab, which I deftly
Avoided, slamming the door on him and
Making my mad dash for freedom.

I saw him the next day, when he invited me to stop by
To meet his dog and see his house.
He lived nearby, in a tidy house full of
Terribly ugly furniture and motel artwork
Inherited from his late grandmother, and
The ugliest dog I have ever seen in my life,
So ugly, in fact, that I gasped when it emerged,
Not being sure what sort of animal it was.

I declined an offer of wine, or beer, or whiskey,
And merely accepted water from the tap,
To his dismay.
I realized that he had no recollection of the events of
The night before, not the poking fingers or the
Neck biting or the bar pounding or the skirt grabbing.
He barely seemed hung over, even.
I was impressed, but still wary,
And I made polite comments
About his house
His furniture
His dog
Nice doggie
And he kept staring at me
With eyes that seemed like a shark's eyes,
Sort of small and bead-like and empty
Or confused.

Once I ran out of niceties, I decided that
There was nothing left in my tank so I
Thanked him for his hospitality and tap water and
He walked me to my car.

As I backed down the winding driveway,
I watched his face, those shark eyes
That stared at me with some emotion that I
Could not place
Either longing or dismay or frustration,
I don't know, and then I
Think I possibly backed over his pansies on the way out,
But instead of stopping to check or to
Make an apology, I admit
I made another dash, put the car in drive and
Got the hell out.

Winter-Warm

Bracing wind stings my skin
Burning light obscured, so
Offers no relief from the cold

Grasses gold, winter-dry and pounded
By scurrying feet, back and forth
Branches bare, stirring as wind threads through

Pounding heart rushes blood
Warms inside, but wobbles
Already unsteady, awkward steps

I stand apart, a length between
To protect myself from the reach
Of the strange energy

Shaking in the cold, I find that
Movement warms me, and
Laughter, unexpected, does too

Footsteps steady, pace quickens
The energy sneaks in a back door
When I am distracted, at ease

Sun emerges for a brief hour
Cheap wine and more laughs
Warm me at last

I sit closer now, open for once
To change, to beginnings, to
The possibility of light

My feet are steady now
The day winds down and the sun retreats
Yet I am winter-warm

He Smelled of Oak Leaves

He smelled of oak leaves
The man beside me at the wide, shiny bar
Perched on a leatherette barstool, one leg
Resting on the floor and the other
Poking out in a pointed V.
There was something vaguely familiar about the
Way he smelled, but somehow,
I could not place it.
And there was another scent about him,
Something sharp and clean and
Chemical.
I could see his teeth as he talked about himself,
His circle, his opinions, his past.
They were the most perfect teeth I had ever seen.
Whiter than polished ivory, straighter than
The borders on a map of Wyoming.
As the row of perfect porcelain kernels
Moved up and down, taunting me a bit
From his raspberry-pink mouth,
I caught a scent of spearmint from his breath,
And it mingled with the muskier fragrance
That hung to his baby-blue mohair sweater and his
Smooth, slender wrists.

He talked and talked, pausing only after a tart,
Targeted question, his eyes boring into mine for a second,
Then darting away.
He heard my answers, I could tell, but wasn't really listening.
He scanned the room, the bustling room, full of people
As carefully arranged and presented as him.

I shifted an inch or so on my barstool, across from this man,
Rather than next to him, I felt, and my mind wandered too,
To another barstool, to another wide, wooden bar, in a city far from here.
An old city by the Pacific Ocean, hot and steamy and tropical,
Where there was a bar on a square, in the oldest part of town.
In the middle of the square there was an ancient tree,
Its wide branches hung heavily with leaves and achingly
Arching toward the ground.
People dashed around the square and into the cafes and shops and bars
Like this one, this bar,
To get out of a violent midday rainstorm,
Or just to pause and enjoy an hour, or two, away from the world.

Inside there were high walls lined with mirrors, and shelves
Stacked with bottles of rums and whiskies and other liquors,
From makers I'd never heard of before, from small, distant countries,
And lush, remote islands where leathery men still knew the secrets
Of extracting fire and sweetness from cane and grain and
Giving it subtle fragrances over time.

There was a man behind this bar, and he was leathery too,
His skin deeply bronze and wrinkled.
He smelled of tobacco leaves,
And a salty hint of sweat, and his eyes were dark and glinty,
As he looked into mine, and took my order.
He reached up to a high shelf, and selected a bottle,
And used his strong, rough hands to mix my drink,
As the rain slashed against the stones of the street
And the tall windows of the bar.
As he squeezed and shook and mixed, scents of
Lime and sugar and white-hot rum came to me,
And mingled with the salt of his sweat, and the
Odor of his tobacco, and the fresh breeze and the
Cleansing rain, and awakened me.

He placed the finished drink in front of me, and looked into my eyes,
Smiling to reveal slightly crooked, slightly yellow teeth, but it was
A smile so kind, welcoming me to sit for an hour or more,
To drink in the afternoon and let it fuel me with its power.
I thanked him with awkwardly spoken words but with a returned smile
That was as honest and pure as his own, and raised the glass to my mouth.
I tasted the strong, fine, sour, sweet and clear flavors that I had smelled
Just moments before, and I knew.

As I remembered this bar, in this faraway old city, in a violent midday rain,
By the ocean, I knew.
Sitting in a wide, shiny room, across from a man with perfect,
Impossibly white teeth, who smelled of breath spray and
Hand sanitizer
And cologne,
Who talked about himself and asked questions that
He already knew the answers to while he
Looked around the room at other people,
I knew.

Search for the Passionflower

They grew among the tall wild grasses and thickets of trees
On the hillsides and by the creeks,
Long, twisting vines dotted with spry purple flowers.
They blanketed the edges of our acre, down steep banks
Near the water, and I'd slide down to pick them.

Ballerina flowers, I called them, not knowing their
Real name, for they looked like miniature dancers
In striped tutus of lavender and white and deep purple and green,
Their yellow, spotted arms contorted in expressions of
Some emotional outburst, on the stage that was
A warm, humid summer afternoon,
Where haze hung in the air so heavily
That you could see its edges as it
Brushed up against the treetops
And skirted the wet asphalt
After a short, violent rainstorm.

I plucked them and saved them in juice glasses of fresh water,
And gave them to the lady who picked us up for camp,
And to my counselors, teenage hippie girls who stuck them in their
Long, blond hair.
I saw them everywhere in those days,
The purple ballerina flowers,
Dancing among shrubs and vines and even the banks of the big creek
That ran through our camp.
I could pick an armful of flowers, a hundred or so,
Long stalks of them, and still,
There would be plenty more.

I forgot about the flowers as the years passed.
If they danced nearby in their striped tutus,
I did not see them.

And then, one day, I thought about them, and looked around me, and
Realized that
I did not see them at all.
Anywhere.
The thickly grassed creek banks were eroded, and the
Densely forested passageways behind our old house
And around my camp, and along all the streets of
Our city, were wide and empty and sparse.
Where once you only saw brush and leaves and branches,
You now could see only the newly built houses and office buildings and roads,
The old growth replaced by manicured lawns and identical lipstick pink rose bushes
Watered on a strict schedule by the buried sprinklers that popped up from the ground.

I began to think intensely about how much I wanted to see them again,
My friends from childhood, who were in hiding,
So I began to look for them.
I drove around the city, looking in vain, even looking in the old places,
Where they had not yet uprooted the oaks and pines,
Where old houses still stood,
Where the creek, though much wider now and almost unrecognizable
Dotted with trash floating down from the new people living upstream,
Still flowed.
But they were not there.

I discovered that they were not called ballerina flowers, but
Passionflowers, passiflora incarnata.
Their stalks and stripes and spots were meant to have religious significance,
Ancient numerology that evoked a spiritual passion,
Meanings that would have been lost on a small girl who
Merely thought the blossoms looked like the tulle costumes
She wore at her dancing recitals.
I learned that these wild flowers grew on vines almost everywhere,
In many parts of the world, and inspired people in many cultures,
With their symbolism, their beauty, their charm,
Yet in my city they were now gone.
Nowhere to be found.
As the old places were gone too, replaced by
Something more regimented, sanitized, organized.

There was nothing wild left anymore, no places where wild flowers could grow.

And then, one day, driving down one of the old roads, next to a huge parking lot,
An asphalt sea, I saw a flash of lavender,
Peeking out at me.
I turned the car around and pulled over on the side of this road, now wider
Than it was years ago, and lined with shopping centers and subdivisions.
I saw a thick crop of leaves, bushes and weeds and twisting vines,
And the trunks of trees, not dying, but weary with age and neglect.
And among all this riot of green was one single vine,
Punctuating the weeds, insisting on facing the sun once again.
They were dancing in their colorful bristles and juicy stalks.
I slid, then crawled, down a hillside to reach them,
Hitchhikers attaching to my pants and noxious ivy tickling my skin.
I plucked a few, leaving the vine to grow, but taking just a few,
Home with me, for I could hardly believe that I had found my flower again.

Within a few days the blossoms in my apartment had withered and died.
I moved away and no longer drove down that old road where I had seen the flowers.
I no longer see them anywhere.
I only see the landscaped lawns and the identical lipstick pink rose bushes and the
Fields of pine straw and wood chippings where
Grass and wild weeds once grew.
I no longer see the passionflowers and I no longer search for them.

But I know that they are out there,
And I will see them again one day.





 

He Reminds Me of Someone

He reminds me of someone
Someone that I knew once, or met once
Or saw in the murky recesses of a dream
It's not the shape of his face or the
Shine or color of his eyes, or the
Timbre of his voice, but the
Feel of him when he is near me
The way the edges of him seem to
Fit so perfectly with mine

Possibly he reminds me not of
Someone I have met in the past
Or seen in a film
Or read about in a book
Or heard about in a song.
No, he may remind more of someone
I have imagined, not the look of him
Or the feel of him when he is nearby,
But rather
The idea of him, and the way I feel
When I am with him.

Let me explain.

He reminds me of a place where
I once walked, on a calm afternoon,
A humid, flat island, at the edge of an
Archipelago of sorts, and
There was a walled garden there.
Through a gate in the wall, I could see
Dark green leaves hanging heavily from low
Branches inside, and strange flowers of
Deep, jewel-like colors, petals dropping
Into a small pool the shape of
Cupped hands.
The garden was empty, yet it
Seemed to beckon for me to come inside.

When I am near him, I am reminded of
That place, that garden, that tree-lined pool,
Those soft breezes from the sea a few blocks away,
And I feel a strong sensation that we should,
We will
Go there together.
We will sit on the edge of the quiet, shaded pool,
Dangling our feet in the cooling water, so our
Calves and thighs touch,
And we will drink icy glasses of liquor
Laced profusely with tart lime and crisp mint leaves,
And sugar cane stalks,
Until our minds grow a bit fuzzy,
And we will kiss under the canopy of those
Heavily leaved and blossomed branches,
There by the sea, in that archipelago,
Where I once peeked through a gate,
And had a feeling that I did not recognize,
A feeling I now know is
That he is so familiar because
We were meant to meet.

The Impulse

Sometimes words evaporate
When a bracing wind
Or even a soft breeze
Comes along to
Sweep them away.

Words spoken on an impulse, perhaps,
And in that moment, they have
Intense power:
Power to inflame,
To embolden,
To inspire,
To attract.


And then, for no reason really,
The impulse passes.
In a tick of the clock,
It is gone.

But the words, once spoken,
Once released into the air,
Captured by open ears,
Embedded into a mind
And a heart,
Live on.

Words set in motion a chain reaction of energy,
A charge that creates its own force,
A regenerating force,
One that may ebb and even become dormant,
But one that does not die.

So though the impulse that generated
Those words,
And released them,
Passes in a moment,
The impact of those words
Draws breath still.
Buried deep in the soil
Of a curious mind
And a longing heart.

The Open Room

An open room, rustling with hushed voices
White noises
Tapping and clicking,
And then,
The sound of something
Like a cymbal crashing,
Water cannon rushing,
Thunder rattling
The window panes --

Silent to everyone else in the room except me.

In such moments one can only focus on
The continuation of breathing,
Looking collected,
Appearing on point and on guard
To those around
Watching and listening.

But all I wanted to do
Was break through the brick walls
The shuttered windows
The buzzing and rattling noises
The fixed gazes of other eyes
And

To breathe in the scent attached to the
Warm skin of your neck
Like salt mixed with amber,
To taste the feel of your mouth
In the open air, in the heat of the late morning sun,
With the wind softly wrapping itself around our bodies
And holding us tightly together, so
Nothing could wedge itself between us

As so many things were doing so in this moment.

Stolen Lemons

Late summer afternoon
Sun baking concrete
Engine groans and acrid exhaust
Never ceasing as
The traffic rushes by
Our ears and our noses

You sensed that I was growing
Restless, ill at ease
In the stifling heat of the city street
And you may have also realized
The fear that lurked underneath
Trepidation about what was to come
What we would be
Together

Suddenly I felt your hand clasping mine
Pulling me across the avenue
Dodging the furious rush
And then safe to the other shore
Down a flight of steps
To a rusted metal dock
Where a small boat stood ready
To carry us away from this place
From the heat and the noise
And more

Once in the boat and moving through
The dark, calm water, I felt
As if the cares that had gnawed at me
Were slowly washing away
And the air felt lighter
As it moved by my skin and through my hair
And the city, seen in movement,
Seemed brighter, yet full of secrets

We approached a tropical maze,
An exotic realm of lush gardens
Concealing colorful houses like jewels,
Their roofs tiled, their windows draped in linen.
Each bathed in hibiscus, passiflora, 
Firebush and wild allamanda,
With palms towering above, and
Thick trunks gnarled with strange vines
And branches that stretched so wide, so low
That they seemed like wings spreading
Over the clipped, verdant lawns,
Protecting the tender grass with their shadows.

I felt your arm wrap softly about my waist
As we faced the horizon together,
Feeling the breeze against our faces,
Smiling into the bright sun which
Was no longer our adversary, but our guide.
Winding through the beckoning canals,
I felt so at ease, and even more so in your embrace,
Safe it seemed, no longer feeling that gnawing
Inside me, that prickling worry about
What everything meant, what was between us.

We approached an especially wild garden,
Slightly overgrown, dark and mysterious,
Surrounding an old, ivory stucco cottage,
Its walls thickly wrapped in downy jasmine,
Sprays of tiny, white, star-like blooms
Sending soft, fragrant invitations to us
To come closer.

To my surprise you pulled up to a
Deserted, small dock and beckoned me to
Get out and explore.
"Does anyone live here? It looks a bit neglected,"
I asked you, and you held a finger up to your lips
And pulled me out of the boat, into the garden,
Trespassing, it seemed, so a bit of a thrill.

I could feel leaves and branches and flowers
Tickling my arms as we wound through
The teeming garden,
So thickly planted
That the sun could only peek through,
And you pulled me on, to the center, where
There stood a beautiful lemon tree.
It was heavy with fruit waxy, bright yellow jewels,
Shaped like teardrops, each nestled in dark, green leaves
That held them like cupped hands.

You reached out to pull a ripe lemon from the tree,
And hushed my protests, for the fruit
Obviously belonged to someone else,
Who wasn't at home.
With the small knife in your pocket, you
Sliced this precious gift from the tropical sun
Open, splitting it in two, revealing
Juice and flesh and pulp inside,
And you held a half up to my nose to inhale
The amazingly sweet scent and
Then you held it up to my lips, and invited me
To taste it
While you did the same.

I cannot recall a taste so fresh, so tart,
So bracing and bright,
As the feeling of that stolen lemon
On my tongue
And on yours
A kiss that made every other sense come alive
And pushed the fears aside
Swallowed by the beauty of the afternoon.

Turning It Off

It was the sort of end of the kind of day
When it was hot and sticky that the fabric of your skirt
Stuck hard to the backs of your bare thighs
Every time you stood up from your chair
Or the seat of your sun-baked car.

It was one of those noisy days, not just the sounds
Of the phone and the dings of new messages
Coming from every source imaginable
But the roar of roadblocks everywhere I turned,
The ceaseless screech of demands and clingy requests
Popping up like late summer thunderstorms.

So much noise.

I stepped inside the bar to find that at least
The interior was cool, although, as the crowd grew
And people pressed against each other to get their drinks
I felt the sweat drip down the crevice
Between my breasts, and
I grabbed my cocktail and stepped as far to the edge
As I could manage.
Everyone was talking, rattling small talk, peppering questions,
Shrill bursts of laughter, hollow laughs really, and
Soon all I could hear was noise.

White noise, they call it, just background sounds that blend
Together to form a wall, where distinct
Words and notes
Are lost.

So much noise.

But then you wove through the crowd
And fixed your eyes to mine
And amazingly I could hear your voice so clearly
And found myself focusing on every word
That the blare of the crowd,
The clanging bottles and glasses
The babbling baseball announcers on the screen
And even the acrid roar of the world inside my head
Was suddenly tuned to a lower setting.

I felt at peace at last, no longer distracted,
No longer bristling at the thought of straining
To make out the message
In the noise.
You reached in and turned off the noise.

The Tall Grasses

I could lie still in the tall grasses

And let the waving blades brush against my skin

And listen to the softly moving breezes

As they whisper through the leaves

Saying how much they want you

To join me there

I could lie still under the afternoon sunlight

As it illuminates the field of grasses

Gently, at a low angle, creating shadows

That dance across my arms and my legs and my face

Like curling fingers, a message that beckons you

To lie down with me there

I could turn my eyes toward the bright blue arch of the sky

Over these acres fresh and flowing

And see nothing but endless emptiness

Not even the faintest outline of the moon or traces of stars

Only the depth of the universe

Where at the other end you

May be hiding, waiting, watching

And I may call out to the sky

To the wind, to the low-hanging sun like an

Apricot clinging heavy to its branch,

And to the undulating, tickling stalks,

To bring you out from that place

Where you mark your hours

And carry you to the field,

This field of tall grasses,

Where you would lie down with me

Red Cadillac

I was sitting with friends in a crowded restaurant
At a round table, covered with a white linen cloth,
Laid with gold-edged china and pristine crystal wineglasses
Filled until they were quickly emptied.

The room was spacious, cavernous even, and the sounds of
Conversation and laughter
Bounced off the beams spanning the high ceilings,
Blending together until they became a roar,
Waves of sound that washed around me.

Yet amid the roving bodies and the echoing sounds
I picked out a familiar face, a voice
That I knew so well,
Yet I was so startled to see her,
I could not comprehend how,
In the realm of reason or reality
That she was there.

Wearing a crisp, red linen jacket,
Pressed khaki slacks,
and
Gleaming gold seashells at her ears,
She looked as if she'd just come from the salon,
Her pale gold hair smoothly blown away from her face,
A smiling face,
Devoid of care,
Time,
Or wear,
Impossibly fresh,
And wearing a calm, knowing smile.

Of course, she could not be here, I said to myself.
She had left us, so abruptly,
Close to ten years ago,
Possibly twelve,
From a sudden failure of her heart,
A heart that had always been open
To me,
And at times when I so desperately needed it.

I admit that in the subsequent years since
She had left me, over that span, I had
Thought of her less frequently,
But at that moment, the thoughts and the yearning
Came rushing back to me so quickly,
Due to my rather reasonable astonishment at seeing her there,
In a restaurant wearing a red blazer and tan slacks, that
I cried out a tiny bit, and stood up so quickly that
I knocked my empty wineglass over,
Onto my plate of half-picked food.

She walked over, so gracefully and without hurrying,
Just as she always had,
So poised, so in control of herself, with that same gentle smile,
One that made me feel that she understood my struggles,
My awkward efforts to fit in, to succeed, to soar confidently,
As she did,
So effortlessly,
Or so it seemed.

As she approached me, she looked directly in my eyes, and
I was transfixed, and at that moment, I realized,
She had sought me out for a purpose,
Crossing a great distance, to tell me
Something that was very important.
She touched my arms, and I felt the linen of her sleeves,
And a warmth beneath them that was so familiar, and
She leaned in close to ask me how I had been doing
Since she had seen me last.

I told her everything.
About the falling backwards, the lurching forwards,
The failed attempts, the stumbles, the moments of glory.
She listened.
She nodded.
She looked again, deeply into my eyes, and she leaned even closer,
Her smooth, coral lips pressed against my left ear and said,

"I understand. It will be all right. I am sending someone for you."

I felt again that rush of emotion, the joy of seeing her, and I hugged her.
I could smell the faintest hint of her perfume,
A scent that reverberated back many years to my childhood,
And reminded me of those long summer afternoons at her home,
Swimming in the pool beneath the canopy of oaks and magnolias,
When she always smelled of jasmine and tuberose,
And always sat beneath the green awning, away from the direct rays of the sun.

As she held me for a moment, I felt calm and safe again,
As if the uncertainty of the past ten to twelve years had
Suddenly evaporated, and then, to my anguish,
She pulled away,
But she held my shoulders with her arms outstretched for just a second more,
And said goodbye, and walked out, winding through the crowd
In the restaurant.

I watched her as she walked away, the sliding glass doors opening
Magically for her, and
A gleaming, 1971 Cadillac Eldorado convertible
Impossibly pristine, with white leather upholstery,
Pulled up to the curb,
And she slid in behind the wheel.

As I stood there, by my overturned wineglass,
And half-eaten meal,
She turned her head to look at me one last time,
And waved at me,
As she drove off, just as
The early evening sunset was beginning its
Evolution into riotous colors
And then,
Slowly,
To a peaceful, purple, moonlit night.

Wide Space

There is a wide space between us,
All of us.
We pass by so many people in a day,
And brush closely, closely enough
To feel their breath on your skin,
Or graze the hair on their arms,
Or rub against the rough cotton of their shirt sleeves or jeans,
But still we are all separated.

To cross that space requires a catalyst.

This may be strong emotions,
Like anger,
Or desire.

Or this catalyst may be something softer,
Like sympathy pushing us to reach out
And offer to warmly hold the stranger,
Just to prop him up,
For a moment.

Or merely the need for warmth,
That allows us to put aside our fears,
Or anxieties,
Or better judgment,
And to allow ourselves to
Step across the space and join together
Even if only for a moment.

It can be a perilous step,
But it's something we all find ourselves doing
Every now and then.

A Coin in the Liffey

I once threw a coin in the River Liffey.
Which is not such a mighty river, not wide, nor deep,
Nor beautiful, nor famous.
But at that moment, it was the only river at hand,
And it was an old river, in an old city,
A city that had known many broken hearts and broken dreams
And those whose fissures were mended after long struggles.

So as we stood together over the bridge on O'Connell Street,
The icy dagger of the Spire just down the road,
With the traffic rushing by behind us,
On a mild June afternoon with a bright Irish sun
Burning the sky above our heads,
I leaned over the railing of the bridge,
And tossed the coin over the side and
Watched it as it wavered a bit in the brisk wind
Then disappeared beneath the murky water.

As the little piece of metal left my palm, I let my mind speak.
I wished that the waters of the old-world river,
That had seen so many travelers arrive and depart over the centuries,
From the missionaries to the Vikings to the Plantagenets to the starving who
Left their green, windy homeland for the chance to thrive,
Would carry my coin and my wish down to the shores near Dublin,
Down into the waters of the sea,
Around the coast of the island,
Out to the open ocean beyond,
All the way to the new world, where
It might be welcomed in a warm, inviting harbor there,
And travel over hill, valley, sidewalk, train track, skyscraper, electric fence,
And anything else that might stand in its way,
To reach an open heart,
Open arms and open mind and open eyes.

I wished for this wish to encircle the world and bring it to me.
I would walk across a thousand bridges over a thousand rivers
To wait for it to come to me.

Leave It Unsaid

I could say that I wanted you to press your mouth and your lips
Against my skin and
To feel your tongue softly moving in gentle circles
Around mine.

And I could say how much I loved the touch and taste of your skin,
All of it,
In the palm of my hand,
And on the tip of my tongue,
And that I wanted more of it
In my mouth.


But

There is no way that I could ever say this
With enough clarity and power and purpose
To cut through the acres of bullshit that
Surround as we go through our lives.

So

Why even try to put words together, or to express
Feelings that come from both between my ears and
Between my legs?
I have seen other people try this and they wind up lost in their words,
Swimming through fog,
Never reaching the other side.
Sometimes you just can't say these things.
You have to leave them unsaid.

Narrow

In a dark, narrow room up four steep series of stairs, I
Stumbled inside, unaware that the bed was located a mere
Fourteen inches from the doorway.

After my expression of startled pain (I had smacked my foot against the bed frame) I was curtly informed that
This was a spacious apartment for this part of Manhattan.

I regrouped quickly, apologized, and asked where I should sit, but it
Was obvious that the bed was the place to be.
And so we fell into it, and
Fell out of our layers of winter clothing,
Me out of my snugly fitted black wool jacket and crisp white blouse and
Voluminous dark green silk skirt over
Thin, black kid boots, then
He reached for the fishnet hosiery that encased my legs,
Snowy legs so unused to the elements, and
Suddenly they joined the heap of clothing building on the cold floor of
That narrow Manhattan apartment,
Along with his long-legged jeans, his slightly itchy sweater, his warm,
Inviting cotton T-shirt underneath that
Still smelled so much of his body that
I was now pressed against.

It was a narrow bed in a narrow room in an old, brick building
With those narrow staircases but it was
Wide enough to hold us as we
Tumbled and rolled together,
Back and forth, around and over again,
With the sounds of the city pulsing far below but
All but unheard by us in this moment.

We would sleep there, in his narrow bed, with just a sheet concealing us,
But as you know, those New York apartments always seem so warm,
Even on the coldest nights, and I
Did not need anything but that thin bedsheet and his warm body up against my skin.
I could feel muscle and soft patches of hair on him, and there is no better feeling,
On a winter's morning, with sun suddenly bursting in through an uncovered kitchen window.
(For the bed was in the kitchen; there were scarcely rooms in this warren.)
I could hear his breath ease in and out and softly ruffle my hair as I felt his chest rise and fall with it, A beat and pulse so calming, I could not help but be at total ease,
Yet I knew, deep inside my heart and my mind, that when
We were both awake and alert and facing that sun that was knocking at the kitchen window that
We would not be so at ease with each other.
Although I felt so much that I knew him at this moment,
His taste, his feel, his pulse, his breath, his sound,
I did not know him, and
He did not know me, and
We would part still as strangers,
Walking off into the biting cold morning to
Drink our coffees as two people who
Had never once
Been as one.

The Glass Between

Standing on the edge of a crush of chattering, eager people, I
Drank a glass of prosecco and tried to appear detached
Or lost in thought
When I was actually something between uncomfortable
And bored.

Small talk is tedious enough, but excruciating at high volume and heat.

Someone approached me to introduce himself, as we had met before but
Don't we all struggle at times to place a name with a face in
A crushing crowd in a stifling bar?
I was astonished to find myself rescued, led away to a discreet, cool corner
To talk, to meet new people, to drink more prosecco, enough to spark
A buzz and guarantee a nagging headache the next morning but
I didn't care a whit when the conversation took an unexpected,
Dazzling,
Startling turn.

Yes, I was dazzled by this person who appeared out of nowhere and
Apparently had been right there on the edges
Of my life, all but unnoticed by me, by often myopic me.
It was what he said, and how he said it, with a preface of
Self-effacement, but with an undercurrent of confidence,
And the fact that nobody in their right mind ever says such things,
At least not to me.
Me, not only myopic at times, but fairly skeptical after
So many disappointments, and unused to
Hearing anything resembling a compliment.
Or a declaration.

If my mind had not been fuzzy from the wine (how many glasses had I consumed?)
And the room not been so warm
And my romantic past not been such an endless stretch of empty sandlots

I might not have been so taken aback, so startled, so
Dazzled by things he said,
Deep things, thoughtful things,
Declarations of honest feelings.

I have so rarely heard honest feelings that they stun me into a state which must appear like aloof cynicism to others.

For, apparently, this man had been observing me,
And did not, as the countless men who had come before him
(So many that I have lost count and in fact cannot recall even their names or the shapes of their faces)
Simply found what they observed to be of no consequence.
Apparently, this man had noticed something else, something within.
Within me.

Yes, there were more and more people around us, even close friends and enemies of mine, yet
I did not really notice them, and
They did not see me for some reason.
I was concealed, not by a wall or a curtain but
By this suddenly unearthed force that I
Could neither describe nor understand nor control.
As you might imagine, all the lofty talk sprung from this
Long-buried force turned earthy itself and
I could feel his arm around me, his hip brushing mine, and
It felt natural, as something I had known for a long time, although
It was utterly new and bracing and unfamiliar as well.
I leaned my face close to his to press for a kiss but he wisely declined,
As there were so many eyes around us, and he knew that they might be on us,
Although I was blind to them.


Soon, we were leaving, how and when and why I don't remember, and not saying
Goodbye to anyone, or saying anything at all, and gone into the night, where
We found a quiet place to talk and to kiss and to touch each other's skin, and
There seemed to be promises of more, so much more, that I was, yes, dazzled, but
Then there more, something cloudy, things I didn't really understand.
Once again, I had let myself be caught off guard and swept to the top of a wave, only
To crash down, my nose and mouth and lungs filling with salty water.
I was angry, I was hurt, I was confused, and yet, I knew there was something to this.
I didn't really believe that his words were just drunk words, crazy words, impulsive words.

I couldn't believe that. They had too much force and power.

I stumbled home, upset and angry and hungry, hungry for more than food, and
In the dark, I simply cursed into the still air, but I realized to my surprise that
I wasn't crying.
He had not made me cry.
And I slept, shutting my phone off.
I couldn't think about the lost words,
The fading touches,
The kisses disappearing so rapidly.

Sleep wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket and I fell deeply into a strange dream.
I walked through a maze of buildings and alleyways
Made of brick and stone and concrete and glass.
Some of them seemed familiar, yet they were placed on
Terrain I had not walked before, steep hills and winding valleys.
I approached one of these buildings, a place where I felt I had been before,
Where I belonged,
Where people would welcome me,
And I saw him inside,
Through a sheet of glass.
He looked at me, and his eyes seemed to pull me closer to him, to kiss him once again, but
The glass would not open,
Would not yield.
We would be separated by it
Until we found some way to shatter it and
To step through the entrance and
Fall into each other again.

I awoke suddenly, stunned that the man had actually walked into my dreams and
Made his presence known in my deepest places.
Switching my phone on, I read his messages from the night before, and
Realized that there was indeed a sheet of glass between us, and
That it would stay in its frame for now, for
Only he had the power and placement to break it.
For now.

This Is a Time for Foragers

This is a time for foragers

For gathering the broken pieces

That careless threshers

Have left behind on their way.

This is a time for foragers,

For finding meaning in the thoughtless words

Tossed aside in the frenzied cutting,

For making nourishment from the bits

Of seed and chaff scattered by the wind,

A full meal of discarded pieces that

Fills the souls of those who come to us hungry.

This is a time for foragers,

To make more out of what others see as less,

To weave a full life from forgotten moments,

To find treasure in the soil crushed by footsteps.

This is a time for foragers,

But as we trail behind the careless threshers,

Gathering the stumps of stalks they leave behind,

We stoop to drop seeds,

One by one, to the ten thousands,

In the soil richly plowed by footsteps,

In earth eager for new crops to cultivate,

A land desperate for new ideas, a new spirit.

And though this is the time for foragers

Tomorrow will come the sun and rain,

And the seeds we have dropped in our path,

Will grow into mighty orchards,

Oceans of bursting wheat,

Sweet-smelling grasses and

Forests of trees heavy with fruit

Their branches echoing the song

Of a new time:

The time to harvest.

Fountain of the Geese

We walked together on a
Cool, clear day, hands clasped lightly
As we made our way through the narrow streets of
The old Gothic quarter.
We turned our faces to the sky to
Feel the warm glow of the sun on our skin,
A sun that cast a brighter light here,
So close to the sea,
Than we had known elsewhere.

Along our path we passed
Tiny shops selling candies shaped like fruits,
And sidewalk cafes serving nothing but pots of mussels.
As we passed an alley, we peered down it to see
A tiled courtyard with a fountain in the center, and
You noticed the scent of almonds
In the air,
A scent that drove you to squeeze my hand a bit tighter
And to lean in to kiss me.

Finally, the streets opened to a wide avenue and there,
We climbed the steps to the cathedral.
“Oh, this is just like all the others we have seen,” I said,
But you pulled me through the heavy, dark doorway and
Turned and said,
“No, in the center of this old church is something surprising.
Trust me.”

We walked down the side aisles, past the ornate altars,
Pausing to look up at the statues of sad-faced saints and martyrs,
Our faces lit by the fluttering of banks of tiny votives.
We dug into our pockets for coins to leave behind,
And I stole a look at you
With your eyes gently closed
For a second or two.

Wandering down the nave, we
Passed an ornate staircase that led down,
Down right into the belly of the great church,
To a cozy sanctuary, tiled and lit with tall candles, where
A baptism was taking place,
A couple holding their infant in their arms,
Surrounded by their families and the beaming priest
In his embroidered robes.
It felt intrusive to linger, so we walked on and then
You saw the sign to the cloister, and said,
“There it is. Your surprise.”

Moving through the gateway, the dark interior of the church
Gave way to sparkling sunlight trickling through the leaves of
Palms and magnolia trees, petals and leaves fluttering to the
Cool slate floor of a garden, here,
In the middle of this old cathedral.
The scent of oranges, of flowers, of clean flowing water,
All filled me with a sense of wonder, and of peace, as we
Strolled into this unexpected space.
And then, amazingly, I heard a low, rhythmic sound,
The sound of geese, squawking in a chorus of complaints,
Thirteen fat white geese, living in the middle of
A cathedral, in this ancient city,
All trotting in a line and hopping into
A fountain.
A well.
“It’s the Fuente de las Ocas,” you said. “The geese number thirteen
To mark the years that the martyred saint lived on this earth.”

I didn’t stop to think about the poor girl who died young and
Gave the church its name and reason for being,
I only thought about the perfect white feathers,
The glistening water of the well,
The scent of fresh blossoms and waxy green leaves,
And the feel of your palm against mine.
I dug my hand into my pocket to see
If I had one more coin left,
And felt
A strange little foreign penny,
Useless for any purchase except this one,
And I grasped it in my fingers,
Leaned up against the wire encasement around the sacred well and
Tossed it through,
Hearing the splash as it tore the surface of the water.
“Did you make a wish?” you asked me, and I
Simply nodded, and you held my hand even tighter and said,
“So did I.”

Ambivalence

She knew that the feelings she had
Were not love.
She knew that the anger she had inside
For him,
For his veering between
Ambivalence and outbursts of
Sudden, almost desperate longing,
Were not hate.
She was not ambivalent about him,
And she did not long for him out of
Desperation, but
She wanted him.
She wanted his fingers on her skin and
She wanted his mouth on her mouth and
She wanted his hands and his arms and his body
Around hers.

Yet she knew that what she really wanted
Was to be wanted by him, for him to want her,
Not only occasionally, in the
Middle of the darkest part of the loneliest nights when
He felt needy and afraid, but
In the middle of a Saturday afternoon, when
The sun was soft in the sky and the air would
Lightly ruffle the leaves on the full branches of the trees.
She wanted him to want her then, but
He did not.
He did not think about her then, and
He did not realize that she thought about him
At all.

It had never occurred to him.

She remembered someone telling her once that
Love and hate were really not such different emotions,
But were in fact very close together.
Almost the same feeling.
You could confuse love and hate,
And your love could spill into hate
And back again
If you were not careful.

Yet she knew that she did not love him,
And that she did not hate him.
She knew that she was capable of loving him,
If circumstances changed, if he could suddenly
See her as more than a
Crutch or a feather and
Turn his mind to her and
His heart to her, but
She also knew that
This was unlikely and
She knew that wanting him would
Never be enough to make her love him,
And would never drive her to
Hate him.

Purple Sky

It started out like the trip from hell.
Driving for hours down a monotonous interstate,
The afternoon punctuated only by
Polite conversation and the stench of wildfires
That we'd heard about on dire reports in the news.
It hadn't rained for weeks.
And it wouldn't anytime soon.
There was just a feeling of despair in the air,
And everyone was ignoring it.

Somehow it got worse.
An accident, hitching a ride to the doctor, shots and pills.
I walked gingerly, in a bit of pain and embarrassment too.
What else could go wrong?
Oh, just wait.
Some guy in boots stepped on my foot on the dance floor.
Then I dropped an entire margarita on myself at the bar.
I hadn't even had a chance to get drunk.
The stars were aligned against me, it seemed.

But then I looked up and saw
The real stars in the sky, over the long stretch of beach.
It was a purple sky, the kind of sky you only see
On those gentle summer nights, when the
Moon is merely a sliver that emits a touch of light, and the
Clouds are just streaks in the distance.

And on that soft summer night, under a purple sky,
As the waves rhythmically drummed a beat in time with the
Music that was suddenly circling around us,
I saw a man, with tan skin and a warm smile,
Sparkling hazel eyes and wavy brown hair.
He reached out to me, his arms open, and
We started to dance.

I forgot about my injured feet,
I forgot about the spilled drink.
I forgot about feeling awkward or self-conscious.
I danced, on that soft night,
Feelings those gentle winds,
Not worrying about anything
Because of his confident step and strong arms
Leading me in the movement.
Under a purple sky that was,
In that moment,
As beautiful as any sky could be.

Apricots

What did I notice about you the first time I saw you?
I remember your eyes, dark and piercing through the haze in the bar.
I remember your hair, shiny and thick.
I remember you wore a hat.
I remember that you were not alone.

You came up to talk to me anyway,
And we talked about meaningless things, the way people do
When they are really thinking other things
About each other.
I tried to be funny, turning a lock of my long hair into a fake moustache.
I’m sure you could tell that I was nervous,
But you laughed anyway.
I’m not sure how or why, but somehow,
We kissed each other,
In the middle of a crowded room,
And then, so suddenly, you were gone.
Yet you were still there, on the fringes of my life,
Just a few words that appeared on a screen now and then,
When I’d least expect it,
Just a face,
Beautiful but distant,
Nothing I could touch, but
Nothing I could forget.

Months passed, a year really, and then suddenly,
There you were again, standing in the same place,
On a night very much the same as the first night,
And once again, it was your eyes that caught me and
Made me a little nervous, though less so this time.
You were wearing that same hat, and soon enough
We were alone together, and
There was nothing between us;
No bad jokes,
No fake moustaches,
No hat.
Yet we were very far apart.
I knew this somehow, yet I felt at ease despite the distance,
Enough to fall asleep when you slipped out to go to the store,
And again when you returned
To slip into the bed beside me.

In the earliest part of the morning,
When the first light creeps up slowly and
Diffuses through the atmosphere,
You can see things in a different way.
Not clearly, as you do when the sun is very bright,
Or even at night, under glaring electric lights.
No, in that part of the day, the light is so soft that
There are few colors.
Everything seems gray.
Yet on that morning,
When I awoke hours before you did,
And slipped out of the bed to dress quietly
So as not to wake you,
And scribbled a note to say goodbye, I
Turned to look at you one last time.

You were sleeping so quietly, your
Breathing so soft, and I
Thought for a moment that your skin looked
As if it were made of apricots.
Like a sweet, amber-colored fruit
Hanging from a broad-branched tree
In a walled garden,
On a hillside somewhere far away,
Maybe in Cappadocia.
I don’t know why this thought came into my mind
At that moment, but I knew
As I slipped into my shoes and placed
The note on the table beside you,
And touched the tips of my fingers to
The skin that made me think of apricots
That somehow I’d find a way
To taste it again.

On the Threshing Floor

Your home was far from mine;
Its fields of barley and windswept hills
Unlike the valleys I had known, yet
The light in your eyes welcomed me,
A stranger, as I told you that day when
We first met.

The sun kissed your bearded face and
Breezes ruffled your long, dark hair.
Drawn to you, I did not worry that
You would shun me, for being without
Family, money, husband, status.
Your eyes told me I was home.

When I told her that I had met you,
And let the sound of your name
Touch my lips for the first time,
She urged me to go to you, to find you,
At night, in the darkness, on the threshing floor.
Go to him, she said. Go tonight. Go and find him.
Uncover him and lie with him,
On the threshing floor.

I wanted this, and wanted you,
And so much more, to be with you as
Your own, and to have you as my own,
But I know that I was also driven by
My empty pockets, my empty future, so I
Flew through the darkness to the
Threshing floor.
And there I found you.
Lying on the ground, asleep, your face
Softened by hours of work and a bit of drink,
And your eyes were closed, so I could not see
Their light, and the dark lashes lay gently
Against your cheeks, blushed by the sun and winds.

Tiptoeing around the other snoring men I
Came to stand at your feet and
As quietly as I could, lifted your robe at the hem.
Awakening, your eyes could not make out my face
In the darkness, in the still air but I whispered
To you and you knew me.
And you drew me in, and you held me,
And we lay there for hours,
Covered by your robe in the darkness of the
Threshing floor.

At the Mercy of the Moon

Tripping over myself
In an attempt to look like I was in control in
A crowded room, on a humid night, amid a hundred people
Drinking, dancing, laughing, and
Watching each other.

I didn't even see you on the dance floor.
I saw other faces, some familiar, some strange.
I heard voices swallowing each other, and I heard the
Endless thrum of the music
Outside and inside.
But then in a second I turned around and you were there.
You looked into my eyes briefly and we started to dance.
Contrary to habit I didn't think about it or analyze it.
I just danced, feeling your skin, your sweat, your warmth
Pressing into mine.

It's on those nights in the middle of August that
Excitement and movement can make it impossible to breathe.
We tumbled out the door, onto the patio, and into
Arms that were yielding as soft rubber, kisses hungry like a
Thirsty cat drinking water.
Somehow, we kept moving, moving to the music and the shouts,
Off the patio and onto the lawn.

My mind came back to me at the worst time, protesting such
A display of abandon with someone whose name I'd barely known
For less than an hour, but I quickly shut down that voice and
Focused on the feel of your warm skin, the cool wet grass, the still air
and the thick blanket of darkness around us.

Until suddenly, illumination.
A sluggish summer cloud wandered on its way and revealed the
Klieg light of a full moon above us
Showing our bodies entwined as clear
As if we were playing on the lawn at noon.

Yet no voices shouted, the music kept raging, and you
Would not let me pull away.
We paused for a breath at last, and in a moment,
Conspired to break away to a distant place, a
More private place.
Our plot was cast just in time, for
Another set of glaring lights approached us from the side;
A helpful police cruiser, sirenless, lit us as we reclined.
Like guilty sophomores we dashed off, off into the night,
Our path lit only by the occasional glimpse of that merciless moon.

It was only hours later that I saw that moon again,
Or noticed it, perhaps.
Streaming through the slats of the blinds,
The moonlight showed me the side of your body,
And I suppressed a gasp as I saw
A trail of marks, scars of a past battle, something you
Had powerfully overcome.
I traced a hand softly down your skin, and felt only
The merest trace of whatever had ravaged you,
And you said nothing.
Your breath was soft and still.

And when the moon was obscured once again
By one of those slow summer clouds,
Your body was once again only something I felt
Rather than saw, and you felt strong and safe
To press against, so I shut the voice down again and
We curled together in the darkness.