Write M'Love
you sd
that simply
but i'm in
false
labor
straining
knowing this
poesy creature
is pushing
at my loins
and i
get torn
flesh shredding
nothing soulful here
tearing
me to pieces
which cannot
form or mold
a poem into being
chunks of flesh
and blood clots
indistinguishably
as words
pass through
me
smash to the ground
and nourish
but your mind
while mine
remains
drained
fighting
this pseudo birth
of mutated creature
that aborts
creativity
sucks
dried red ink
a promise
not a fluid
suitable
to pen the pain
that gushes
from emptiness
labor pains
without
the afterbirth
writhing
from my
flanks
not poetress
M'Love
but hunted
animal
a hippie?
3-19-98
she sd
you look like a hippie
her 19-year-old comprehension
of history
contorted by the
the admiration she may feel
of me in this moment
sitting there
bell bottoms tight
on my aging ass
and sagging breasts
moving braless in tie dyed shirt
to the rhythm of
minor chords
on strings
that run just parallel
on my guitar
and she
standing with piercings
and black hair
blond roots struggling to
show the real girl
she still is
and i was once too
cramped
in false
labor
24 Springtimes Later
for KT
its getting warmer in chicago
looks like spring is doing its thing again
and as every year this time
i wonder if it will get really cold one more time
and more than in the depth of winter
i need that blanket i made
over twenty years ago
when i was pregnant with my daughter
and sat in the cold cold north country
waiting for that due date in april
and the sun to melt the snow
when she was born just before easter
there was still snow on the ground
but with that little creature in my arms
and the blanket around us
it never seemed warmer
now she is almost twenty-four
and outside the snow is gone
it feels cold in this house
maybe i need dirt under my fingernails again
from planting seeds in pots i put expectantly
on sundrenched window sills then
and that purring cat feeling
of laying big-bellied next to a warm-breathed man
maybe i shld fix that oven door
so i can bake cookies
like i did when she toddled around the kitchen
red-cheeked and excited about the sweets to come
so trusting that mom's precision
wld result in only good things for her
maybe it's the absence of the noise
and the presence of freshly painted walls
that are no longer adorned by crayon art of a little girl
i have smiles every morning
but maybe having more than mine reflected in the mirror
would be nice
smiles which gratefully acknowledge the wrinkles
around my eyes
and maybe having a touch on the cheek
by someone else than my hungry fat tomcat dudley
who wakes me up with a rough licking tongue
would be nice too
but i have bar-b-ques with her friends now
and drumming in my living room
where she sits on the carpet and beats out
a rhythm on my congas
and i have e-mails with cheery messages
her latest story about yuppies
whom she despises for their soulless look
while her eyes see the world the way i showed it to her
so long ago
when we wld lay in the grass and watch
everything from blades of grass to creepy things
and laughed at the miniature world and its beauty
and once in a while she rushes in now
with thrift store bags
a find of vintage bell bottoms for 90 cents
and guatemalan vests
she picked up for me.. and they fit
she of the long hair that replaced french braids and pony tails
and later the punk cut
half shaven on one side and really long on the other
and dyed black to match
ripped nylon stockings and combat boots
but that passed in less than two years
she of dream journeys retracing her
great grandfather's iroqouis paths
and clay figurines she forms with feeling hands
she of veiled paintings on alley-found wood
in her apartment just seven blocks away
filled with more smiles and joy
than her chocolate cookie smeared face of
two decades ago ever expressed
her city window sills are filled year-round
with herbs and flowers growing
higher than mine ever would way back
then in that childhood world of hers
maybe i wouldn't be so cold
if i wldn't keep waiting for spring
and wldn't remember that winter is coming again
Good Morning!
For Ron and Bart
you whiskey-toothed roughlaughing
high priesting word hunting poets
back from the hunt with mud speckled faces
that boozebanner on your breath
that little sway in your hips
that manlook in your eyes dragging
lessee what is in that grease smeared leather bag
what have you got tied up
in those hemp ropes?
bison tiger porcupine a little squirrel a three-legged rabbit
NO its a bag full of poetry animal words
ooooooh you caught the dangerous ones
oh, you could have gotten hurt!
You two
always do that
you go into the deepest brush and
bramble and shoo those ones
you know how their sting hurts?
if you ever get stung
dont come running to us and ask for healing salve!
You two
oh, and you caught some of the ones
they are so sneaky so hard to catch
good we'll keep them
for a special feast! they cook up deliciously
they simply melt on your tongue
after we marinate them in that special sauce
of ours a bit
how wonderful
you two
and a few of those
come on now, they are hard to cook!
You know how they taste
we're gonna have to use a lot of our women spices
to do anything with those!
Why'd you catch those?
No matter what we do with those
they'res always a little
that sticks in one's teeth for a long time
foul smelling morsels, we say..oh well
you two
anyway, successful hunt.. Good
You Too!
In Four Months
he had never left them
always made sure
to wipe them off
or washed the sheets
right away
had learned to
erase the signs
of passion
his cleanliness
a trait accepted
i acknowledged
the presence
on his sheets
of cum stains
he claimed had been
left by us
four months ago
they looked so fresh
i didnt wash
the sheets for him
this time
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