An Open Book

The cat is a poem written in cursive
like a long sentence without punctuation.

Stripes on her face rhyme with the ones
around her waist. Nudge the ear with the end

of the pen, smear ink of exposed claws as they sink
into both sides of a hand. Cat gazes

middle distance with eyes like gallows,
reading bird song and shadow. Half dozen

finches pop like golden seeds on hot lawn;
dove’s bow and bob, shadows double

the orchard. Bunches of birds come and go, cat
stretches a ready arm across the stack of books by her head;

bides her time, levels ears, twitches and studies—
thump thumping an eleven syllable tail.

Return

(In memory of James E. Woolway)

I strip his feet of hospital socks,
one sister rests her cheek
on a gauze wrapped hand,
another fingers his thick hair
on the unbandaged side,
my mother thumbs
the back of his hand between
plastic tubes and silver needles.
Somewhere down the hall,
a nurse sings to another:
I hear you’re going home today?

Frida Kahlo Self-Portrait 1940

Her gaze is ravin sharp. Her eyebrows soar across her vacant brow.
There’s a vague resemblance to a kiss on her lips. Arrows of sharp
foliage fence her off from the clouds. Skeletal twigs climb above
each shoulder like featherless wings. The thorned hoop around
her muscled neck leaves red cranes gliding along her collar bones
and tadpoles diving into her heart. Her chin climbs into her throat;
buckling her tongue to the locked gate of her teeth. Her nose
is flared. Her eyes take aim at a point outside of the frame.
The milagro in her ear hangs with its fingers pointing down, while
cindered wings fail to fly up.

Charles Simic, Meet Frida Kahlo

If a place can be lit by a glass of milk, then eyebrows can be

a smoking wick.

If a shadow can have roots, then a woman’s eye can have a hilt.

If a white cloud can have a steeple, then a nose can have thorns.

If sleep can be dyed red, then a mouth can be an overturned nest.

If breath can be rustling leaves, then stillness can be a trap door.

If a morning star can have talons, then a stare can grow roots.

If a chirp can be a burning candle, then a throat can be a crucifix.

If the sky can be holy water, then a branch can be a dirty scalpel.

If the shape of a bird can be the insides of a yawning mouth,

then a glance can be a siren.

River Stone

A woman experiences a loss
the way a river stone is colored grey or beige
Someone says, “Pick up the stone,”
so we touch its surface,
brighter if left in the water.
To wish for the colors to have a meaning is a mistake.
To wish for loss to have meaning is a mistake.
Meaning wears loss like a tree wears leaves,
dropping slowly beneath branches, one at a time.
The tree is not its bark or branches or leaves.
The meaning is not the shade nor sky nor grass.
What might happen if we skip the stone across the surface of a lake,
to let the round pebble dance with its own reflection?
What if we rest beneath the tree in deep shade,
leaves twirling around us in spirals like kamikaze kites?

For Lost Fathers and Dogs

The corner of morning
is different from the corner of mourning—

One is a cane chair leaning into sunlight,
the other a cobbled alley in a rough city.

One murmurs a hello in the ear,
the other shivers the spine with farewell.

One, an unopened missal with a worn binding and fragrant pages,
the other, an overturned Scrabble board on a hard wood floor.

The corner of morning
is different from the corner of mourning—

One has the slow eyelids of sunrise,
the other, the quick plunge into sunset.

One is the warmth of her muzzle resting on your bare foot,
the other, an empty bowl on the bottom step.

One is a coffee-stained newspaper marooned on an easy chair,
the other, a leather wallet, reading glasses and watch in his bureau drawer.