Confessions

Don't kick my shadow

such a shady story

in the bright light of day

elongated like an El Greco painting

pained in purple gray

or stumped into secrecy

my shadow

is as much a part of me

as the detail you see

in the face

facing you

in all honesty

Sentry Dream

Unbridled chestnut

mare. Forehead to forehead, we

press in reunion.

Then she comforts me with her head in my lap

as I stroke her long neck and the cleft between her breasts.

What I Lost

Spirit of Spirits

With my lover, the barefoot bandit, I lost

that wretched gift of time,

swallowing only a liquid limbo

until the fog of inebriation cloaked

that wretched gift of time,

and I, soused and insouciant,

until the fog of inebriation cloaked

wanton wanting with languorous longing.

And I, soused and insouciant,

embodied a poverty of spirit,

wanton wanting with languorous longing,

my soul, yes, but this glass, never empty.

Embodied in a poverty of spirit,

sweet grapes, divine:

my soul, yes, but this glass, never empty,

a timelessness without bitter absolute.

Sweet grapes, divine:

nourish me that I might become full,

a timelessness without bitter absolute,

fermented in celestial firmament.

nourish me that I might become full,

quenched and clean, my barefoot lover,

fermented in celestial firmament.

But with this masked bandit, I cannot see,

quenched and clean, my barefoot lover,

the blurred delusion of naked surrender.

But with this masked bandit, I cannot see

adorned thieves who break in and steal

the blurred delusion of naked surrender.

I am still clothed in want and need

while adorned thieves break in and steal.

Oh, but they cannot triumph over the undressed poor.

I am still clothed in want and need,

so more quickly ensnared, I

cannot triumph over the undressed poor

who live un-seized by desire.

So more quickly ensnared, I

am defeated at the vine by the ones

who live un-seized by desire.

With my lover, Barefoot Bandit, I lost.

August 11 Feast Day to St. Claire of Assisi

Goodnight Chiara

Last night I knelt at her feet.

Straw poked and scratched my knees.

I couldn’t see.

With palms pressed together at my lips,

I blew in three hot breaths

then placed my hands on the top of her feet ---

just as she had taught me.

Are you warm enough?

Was all I asked. I wanted to ask,

How many miles did you walk?

Did your soles crack and split in winter?

Did you ever wish, just once, for someone else

to bathe your feet?

I shifted, inching quietly on my knees.

I couldn’t see,

but I knew the distance of her leg

and rested when I reached her hip.

The twin bones, palpable in the dark,

ridged through her robe like rocky cliffs

above cypress trees and the sea.

I placed my hands,

palms flat in the cave of her belly,

fingertips toward the moon ---

just as she had taught me.

Are you hungry?

Was all I asked. I wanted to ask

Are you sorry about the babies you never had?

How red was your blood when you bled?

Was it clear, like almost ripe tomatoes

or black scarlet?

I slid one hand to rest on her sparrow ribs.

The other hand

under

between straw and robe

to hold the sacred bone ---

just as she had taught me.

Are you comfortable?

I asked as my hip tingled with sleep,

and straw poked and scratched my wrist.

  

Did you really sing for Christ

or did you sing for the sensation of your lungs

open,

your mouth open

so wide.

Your throat wide.

Wide enough to reach the darkness inside.

Wide enough for a scream?

Are you thirsty?

Did you ever want to scream?

Stand in the center of the silent sisters

and scream.

What are we doing?

We could be feasting in our fathers’ houses

or dancing in olive groves.

What are we doing?

Barren bellies to the ground,

forehead against cold stone,

when we could be touching

not just in sickness,

touching in health,

touching

in love.

Don’t you miss touching in love?

Dawn. The crucifix on the wall

swollen in the early shadows,

larger than it really was.

I shifted to sit at her head

and put her hair in my hands ---

just as she had taught me.

Fingertips on the memory place,

I asked

Do you miss life before Francis?

Chiara?

Was all I asked.

Chiara, can you hear me?

Her lips opened

slight.

One light puff.

Yes,

she whispered.

Yes.

from 1999

Demi Mondes de la Port

Who are you?

Soiled doves.

   Snapping black eyes, but

      otherwise,

            Un-

            certain

            features

Faceless maidens in the Palace of Sweets.

Who are you?

Destitute doves.

   Dining on apothecary ethers,

      sulfur spermacides

            Cat-

            nip

            cure!

Miss ~

Carry you back to the crib,

   Bleeding, but certain

            who

            you

            are.

Naughty ladies

With red-light inclinations

            you

            are

Miss Lily, Miss Rose, and Madame Marie

            Satisfaction

            guaranteed!

More abandon

A Bandon: Finding Liberation

I pace the edge between begin and end

beyond the tether of self created.

I am not afraid to move.

I am afraid of standing still,

utterly still in this gray silence --

this 2:00 a.m. space

where the crow has long since cawed away

the busyness of a day --

where my purpose of being

is not yet linked to memory or knowing.

Absolute stillness, before the morning dove

has begun her lament,

I am awake,

whirling in the space between --

vertigo of the soul.

East opens beyond the sun

and west, an ocean abyss,

I am direction-less.

North and south,

a fading filament.

In this center threshold,

this 2:00 a.m. space, I am

at the same time,

both leaving and left behind.

Self and other.

I desert and am deserted,

defined in my defining.

I am both form and motion,

noun and verb,

I abandon and am abandoned.

To surrender

A Bandon: Finding Fibonacci

To be in my power, I must now yield,

relinquish my claim to the all knowing,

my fight for self-reliance; I must spin

with abandon in a wildflower field,

spin like a mad child until dizzy and glowing

with emptiness and trust. I must forfeit

my ego, concede to sunflower revealed,

to swallowtail on my shoulder, fleeting.

I must lay down sovereignty and submit

                to the moral order of pinecones.

Sensual Abundance of Summer

Watermelon 

You know
what summer
tastes like-the pink flesh
of a generous earth,
this rounded life
fully ripe, fully flavored.
How could you be ashamed
at the tug of desire?
The world has opened itself to you,
season after season.
What is summer's sweetness
but an invitation to respond?
There is only one way
to eat a watermelon.
Bury your face
in the wetness
of that rosy slab
and bite.

-Lynn Ungar from Blessing the Bread