As Mourning Doves Persist

On my back on the table in this your calm room             you caress my ankles and will my body tributaries  to rise up and meridians to exhale  Your knowledge like pulling taffy with buttered             hands   Your strength redirects my body’s river  which you lift and stretch       Then you place a wafer of a small white pillow over my eyes             that I might entirely succumb     to your warm hands draping  like weighted blankets over each of my resting shoulders    With intention    drifting toward chest      measuring every              underground hillock in these my pliable appendages  Rag doll    Ballerina flutter  You know each finite twist as you precisely roll              my relinquished wing  inward   then out   my shy face sensing the sun         breeze-like     dragon fly lithe spine holding then unfolding   You press hard with your palm on the top of my right hand             (The discovery of braille)    fingers blanket fingers leveraged from neck tendon to    

  When we spoke on the phone there were dominant background sounds, crickets here that    rhymed with the smoke alarm that went off in your living room and you couldn’t remember    the code to shut it down and last night a moment of rain and I lay in bed unsure if I should go outside   to set the orange bucket aside from the downpour to maintain the safe house there for the unidentified   protozoa, my husband called them, naiant in the unlikely habitat  - what I believe tadpoles   beside a yard where I have never seen frogs but perhaps it is the sludge cry that I seek   the sticky tar paper that lines my lungs and heart cavity weeping impending displacements, my father   who may never button up his favorite green shirt again  with philodendron etched on fabric nor walk    out to the lanai at the back of his house with his third wife  and we either joke or pretend we will take him   to the beach when we arrive and that we must bring him a panorama, one gulp of   a photograph of his ten

  The admonishment at age 6 was this:  Pull your lower lip in, or an elephant  will come along and step on it .  My grandmother of the always clean,  passing the felt-bottomed collection plate, allowed no pout.  Sadness was for others with less, without silverware to eat. No picking at the peas or potatoes. My lip and lump    in my throat forbidden, hidden. Stick figures  populating a children’s book. Spine affixed with silver adhesive tape, a stringy makeshift mend, once belonging to my father, her most obedient son (Just swallow that ball of  irritable.  Good Manners Can Be Fun ) I defaced the aging pages,  scribbling my crooked name sloppily in pencil, and then rooted  for the tiny pachyderm in a blue star-less room   Nose-trunk growing like Pinocchio caught in what he wanted  to believe. That he was a real boy. That these elongated faces  make visible sense when we are lonely and no one is listening. When the forest is full of wonderful screeching monkeys and rhinoceros.  Thick ski

I remember arriving, not the prettiest but appealing  to certain bards in the back room, entering through  the Castro Valley corner door, walking the postage stamp sized  Cinzano bar curated by a man from Detroit who named  his establishment after a certain French elephant in a children’s book I arrive with budding consciousness around politically correct solidarity for disheveled neighbors, entering the cigarette lit night rising to tin siding ceiling to floor thumping insistence   Bruce and Joie and David and Laura and John, their ash and sweat accumulating as I waited patiently for my place on the crumpled sign-up sheet   Today, three decades later, I sit in a Santa Fe gallery named simply Here, and a poet reads to us of roadrunners and a bear and  a continuation of the call for preservation of our environment There is an otherworldly hum outside the window of leaded glass The owner sidles up behind me and pushes the frame down to contain what we came to hear I have applied lipstick

For she who hatches swatches of what she sees. Snaps through a window  faster than her cat in crouch. For she who measures the trees from the top  down with a lens. Hatchback, glass track. Saturday’s tables captured.    For with her we will learn the bird talk, the staged songs, switch backs and sidelong glances. For she can organize a bench of twigs on which to sit. An easy  hors d’oeuvre  p arty at Marcy’s, mixing friends like fledglings    come to settle mid-exhaustion in an oval of feathered rest. Or watching  simply for what rolls across the road and comes to a stop. Nest atop.  Refreshing shadow in this summer heat. Soft pecking from inside.

What springs up: insistence in this persistent                                                 mother of mine (still breathing) Even busy ashes     from a rescued urn float up reconstituted as morning dew   She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow     (shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender)   (that moment when I am less certain of her longevity) this woman ever present     (anyone’s mother)    aging    when even the most spindly clover of her fragile skin                         captures the sunrise light like   anticipation’s shower      blood underneath all        humming bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth   inhale (frightened) breath     exhale grit inhale (certain) breath           exhale grit