Saturday, March 31, 2018

Ojo Caliente

The body worker lifts one word 
from each visitor as she finishes. 
Erasure or clue. Fatigue
sawn off. Placed in a pot
in a warm window just
outside the narrow room. 

Personalities linger there: 
belly dancer, concrete breaker, 
elementary school teacher.
diamond, chisel, pencil.

honoring all who falter, Easter weekend, 2018

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Broken Bits and Mending Tape

Sacred stones roll around on the floor of my car, carried in over years of scavenging. Pocketed. Parceled. Placed on dashboard or grave. Markers of present coloring past. The sun bathes the windshield just so and the secret messages written in mud or snow show themselves for the innocent blessing that they are. I walk into this side street cafĂ© with my bruised heart in a purple and black satchel and am greeted by a circle of banjo players and one free seat against the window. Chairs like we inhabited in elementary school when things were still made of wood, grafted together at the corners with metal, corners rounded and smooth. We kept our notes in desks and lockers, wrote whispers of names we adored on the plain brown wrappers around our math books. Took broken bits and mending tape, carted cassette songs of guitar players who have since died or changed their names. Like mantras, directions to the river canyon where we could picture the rough rope as magical swing over the cold water. The perfect drop into the uncontrolled. The seconds of our happy eyes opening under water to witness the consecrated. To hear every thought in the perfect suspension. The rattle of the sacred. Pocket. Canyon.

Friday, February 16, 2018

#7: Marigold

Photo Marcy Albin
To take the sturdy
and pungent spike that rims this
flowerbed border.

Ward off tiny invasions.
Ants and snails, sluggish
ships. Snip away what’s withered

to live instead with
this regal red lion’s head.
Misfire severed from

body ducts now on their own.
Clear and untethered
from the weathered pressing down.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

6: Shadow Spine: What we ingest as we fret. What we dream as we heal.

photo Marcy Albin
First surgical draw took a layer of desert. Ovaries like sweet petit fours, little ovens, gone in a mouthful. Fallopian tubes harvested as if cacti sliced and fed to dairy cows to embellish their milk.

Inebriant of all poured through. Threat of rainwater torrent down arroyo at the blind curve
ahead. Finally, I sleep the surprise of sticky after-taste. Prickly pear’s radish red fruit rolled into sweet jam and hard candies.

My organs leaning into the hollow that once held my daughter. Remembering estrogen spurred nutrients moving into my breasts. Valentines tinged with day’s shadow.