not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Friday, December 30, 2011

longing




as your body is gone from me, my voice grows smaller. 
i have layers upon me like the matted hair of a cat
and in all my bodily being there is but one small resident of a mouse. 
its heart beats so fast i am afraid of it like a thumbprint. 
how easily it might be eclipsed. 
i push it back underneath the table out of harm's way
where it manages to stay alive, warm like an earlobe,
waiting for your return.


Thursday, December 29, 2011

the small blue bird



the small blue bird is, of course, a metaphor


but that makes it no less real


Wednesday, December 28, 2011

once there were leaves



once where there were leaves
now there is silence
a heartbeat between two cupped hands
a hair's length before the talk begins again
of when and where and how
new leaves will grow

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

book and table


it's a quiet night.  he picks up a book and begins to read.  the story might go anywhere despite what the words drilled onto the page might suggest.  it is this way with writing, with love, with each new day, with life;  the story becomes what the story becomes.

Monday, December 26, 2011

winter day


how much
low little
comprises anything
everything?

Sunday, December 25, 2011

earrings




 the gift of self over and over again, this almighty nugget of i that i would like to break
and yet it is upon my ears, i-ears, that your love does hang
 

Thursday, December 22, 2011

she


she lopes through the wilderness

i strain to hear her
as though she might ever be captured

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

in light and shadow


it was a winter night
when he lit the candles
and set down his book.

i sat still
watching the match
struggle against the bureau top.
it raised its head like a bruised man
toward the heady flames,
not wanting to be extinguished.

Monday, December 12, 2011

anatomy of a house


there must be structure at the core

lately we find safe and quiet places to be in our house, as though we need to find shelter from even its larger more noisy being.  my children and i take to my bed fully clothed, read books, lounge, touch one another's fingers.  this structure is more sound than any load bearing wall.  i am in love with this intimacy.  i think of putting a king sized bed in the living room and kicking in the tv.


Friday, December 9, 2011

Thursday, December 8, 2011

storms come (and go) suddenly


i am sitting at my desk
expecting the outside world 
to be as i left it

in an easy moment
i look up into a storm
it rails against every window

what else can i do
but shout for joy?

you know nothing, erin
you are so small

yes, yes~

Monday, December 5, 2011

your name is a -


Poems For Blok

Your name is a - bird in my hand
a piece of - ice on the tongue
one single movement of the lips.
Your name is:  five signs,
a ball caught in flight, a
silver bell in the mouth

a stone, cast in a quiet pool
makes the splash of your name, and
the sound is in the clatter of
night hooves, loud as a thunderclap
or it speaks straight into my forehead,
shrill as the click of a cocked gun.

Your name - how impossible, it
is a kiss in the eyes on
motionless eyelashes, chill and sweet.
Your name is a kiss of snow
a gulp of icy spring water, blue
as a dove.  About your name: sleep deepens.

Marina Tsvetaeva  1916