As Mourning Doves Persist

Word is just in from a friend who received word from a friend that my book has gone to the printer!  I could have copies in hand in as soon as two weeks. Now to set the table.  Pour the water into blue Mexican glass pitchers for sharing. String the prayer flags dotted with tiny hearts. Send out invitations.  Another friend has offered a space in which to launch the precious, personal boat of poems. Let's gather in a gallery with a Spanish name for window.  Place the blue pitcher on the sill. I will cup my hand and blow the caught water of wishes into the opening sky. Sky of my life growing into the dress of the poet.  Everybody come in dancing shoes and open, welcoming hands. Drink. Imagine the shapes  of the words you know. Conjure your art. In process. Place your name on the spine.  I want to share this with you.

                Never mind letters to the dead. What of missives written to the distant, transparent living?  Questions to distracted mothers who whistle. Regrets  to thought-furrowed fathers. These are the forgotten, sweet tooth promises, piñatas and childhood exhalations. Old yellow pencils chewed to a scribble – I miss you – longing that fails to find anyone, anywhere. Cousin on an East Texas oil rig. West Coast brother in a band.  Sister who swears she is happy. But adjectives spill,                  bruises,             sticky midnight-blue paint             poured down your windshield. The mystery of a boyfriend who when broken sets fire to things. Remember the inky tension of ash that smudges your fingers when you reach in to align  typewriter ribbon. Remember the cool metal return and the sound of carriage that rings a fresh new line. Begin again... (from The Shape of Caught Water )