As Mourning Doves Persist

...Letters to the dead fall behind headboards when weeping overcomes us, sweeping, are lifted free, clearing away pennies and spoons –   leftover utensils, touchstones for the woman whose withholding husband can no longer hear her, sharp pen on parchment. The cheek, when caressed, remembers shorthand,             insertion of a comma to catch             overdue breath. The dead answering             when we least expect. Their whispers arrive as instruction – return to sender – I adore you. We remember salty, sweet, adhesive stamps against our rough tongues; with trust,             we open the metal mouth,             drop the envelo...

                                                                 I sit on the porch out of doors blue heeler beside me in the sun her dusty back rises and falls in far-off dream pant. From the nest she dug earlier, flecks of walnut bark stick to her coat, dull sequins and webbing. My hands make small, idle sweeps across the warm fur. A lone car travels up a side street. Pup’s lazy head periscopes to the sound. Inside, my husband half watches a movie, mutters to himself, soundtrack lonely and calling. Our daughter busy, texts quiet calls, fingers like a modern telegraph operator. It’s Saturday and I have everything and nothing to do. The silence in the yard, punctuated with breeze, lulls me to paralysis at the ankles and full, low-slung gaze. Our bodies bo...

If Bob Dylan drove down my street would he curse the dusty potholes and slow for dogs? Could his passenger be a gal he met when she was tending bar the night before? Woman from Amarillo who changed her name to Betty, rolling her own cigarettes with just one hand. He signals knowingly when he turns right onto Camino Sin Nombre. They see the same things as they steer through airy cottonwood down. The sound of the night falling will bring them to their senses, singing out loud. She will remind him how to swim. Excerpted from The Shape of Caught Water available from Red Mountain Press or directly from the author (505.670.4327) http://redmountainpress.us/

V-Day, State Capitol, Flash Mob I am seven. I have my special socks on. On the stretchy front of them is a Superman shield, gold diamond with the first letter of my name in red in the middle. People will notice me as I walk toward them. I will not fold under into nighttime prayer or Daddy’s hidden things under the bed. My grandfather holds my hand instead. Everything is calm tonight as we walk through bright blue sky into this bookstore. In the front room there is an L shape of metal chairs full of silent people. They are listening to a red headed woman wearing glasses. She is reading to them from an iPad which is funny because it isn’t a book. I don’t know what she is reading. But I look at her quickly as we walk past the little stage where she stands. I count the three wooden steps up to her microphone. She stops reading sometimes to answer questions and moves her hands with their palms up like they are flying softly. Like the kind of prayer I would make when no one w...

It will take a while to get the room back to its original  position in the scheme of things Hold your shoulders as if in yoga pose pucker your lips breathe out the doubt frame it differently

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 r...