As Mourning Doves Persist

When I first began posting on this blog I was inspired by a weekly horoscope that offered the following: "...It's important that you do what you do best without any embellishment, pretentiousness, or self-consciousness. Don't you dare try to hard or think too much or twist yourself like a contortionist to meet ... expectations. Trust the thrust of your simple urges." For ten months I worked collaboratively on a manuscript of imaginary letters with a dear, longtime friend only to eventually scrap it, or, let's say temporarily set it aside to age. We felt we could no longer move forward due to constraints that were being placed on the work from the outside. It was our decision that we were in fact twisting and contorting, re-writing and subsequently producing something that began to no longer resemble the original work. This simply didn't feel right. We opted to hold true to the initial intention. I then began assembling a book-length manuscript of poems and...

Rising from the damp ditch of short sleep acequia lady picks up her traveling mandolin to accompany boom box bass on wheels passing on the wet street. Bus comes by. Push brake hiss at the rigid stop sign corner. Wistful 'o' in the mouth of the bronze mother in the artist's yard floats as if a piano in her esophagus is escaping.

Entire summer days, we run slick pavement. Hurl ourselves from a low board into cool water for shiny pennies tossed. Underwater tea parties and handstands. Skinny legs in the air ready to ignite. At night from a back bedroom window, I spy on the swimming pool. Light left on illuminates  the moving rectangle of blue. Hole my father dug to hold us there. My sister and brother asleep in the same room. Outside, bats like dark kites dare the night.

Clouds or not. This tent marks the clearing.  Corners stitched together  make honeycomb cocoon.  Someone crawled out, solitary, first  to assemble breakfast. Bacon and berries and bread drenched in batter. Someone gathered lost shoes. Arranged palm-sized rocks. Shuffled canvas chairs to circle the fire pit still smoking, to awaken day's amphitheater. Brothers paired for strumming. Cousins who linger in nap tents  to talk,  stretching. Redwood trees and rock river quietly flatter silver banks. Kayaks of fathers. Monarchs, arching, glide. Someone stitched these burgundy seams. Who told the moon to greet me? When I crawled out, sleepless, no longer lonely.

for condiment, only mustard, dusty dark Dijon. Merely mustard for the garlic sausage and to spread across tortilla. Top curlicues of sweet potato fries. Dribble on fresh wilt spinach. Only mustard for this retreat. Two days away with this most confident of seasonings and a tall thin jar of olives, gin, Earl Grey, and dark chocolate covered toffee. But there is also salt in this casita and cane sugar on a shelf in a bag with clothespin to clasp it shut. A soldier’s queue of spices including Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Magic Blend. A writer will not starve here. Nothing bland. Sharp is the dab of smoky paste against the sweet fried bites speared with foreign fork. Not mayonnaise. Not sour cream. The mustard is the master, no matter.

Once she was a lapful of a girl. We read the same bedtime story over and over again about a mother and daughter who collected pennies and quarters in a great big jar. The mother was a waitress, I think, and worked tirelessly. She spilled the thumbprints of metal onto the table every night, and together they scooped them like favorite crumbs into their readied, bird catcher palms. From there, they tumbled the symphony of coins into the open mouth of the jar with a secure lid. You see, there was a big rose studded fabric chair they were saving up for, and by the close of the story they were bound for the furniture store. They bought that luscious rest of a long forthcoming fortune with their savings. They put it in the back of a pickup truck and climbed into it together as a helpful friend drove them straightaway toward home. Tonight my girl will dress for the prom in black miniskirt wearing flashy shoes to offset the rainy spring air. She will pin a boutonniere of two white calla...

What of these jagged mornings. Two men pull the ropes  from east coast and southwest to settle their mother's estate  by telephone. My daughter builds an energy efficient house in miniature on her bedroom floor as confidence flags for the day's history test; knives and scissors hidden everywhere under cardboard. Yesterday having eaten too much sugar, I rise with a headache and neck like a warped board. The dog dreams a heart attack in the chilly shadow of the 8 a.m. study. Her belly breathes a snare drum of staccato yelps. For these minutes the mourning dove's calling is overridden with traffic streaming like water that I cannot hold back. I walk the hallway with my fingertips on the walls as if braille were the surrender. Signal to knowledge of what will arrive next. 'tis the season of concrete and hammers. Taut wire will hold us together. Press down on the tongue and respect one another.