Empties

Empties


It’s an artful craft, hiding the empties-

slipped into the back of a bedroom closet, stuffed and cluttered with

buckets of loose family photos, notes from old friends, useless trophies.

Or you save one good chug for a midnight tongue in a

bottle stuffed in the front closet snow boot, deep fox pocket

idle in mid-July.

The dark corners are countless in this house.

So many places to stash a ten buck Grey Goose

or the priceless shards of  discarded plans

or a pint of  Southern Comfort

or a goat skin bursting with grief

or a flask of tequila

or a gallon of shameful rage, malignant guilt.

Or a heart that once knew how to love

all hidden with that classic clumsy stumble just minutes before you’re unconscious.

You won’t recall where you’ve put them…

until piece by piece, all of the buried resurface.

And  they will.

You just pray that that they won’t all be empty,

because you are dying of thirst.

Girl in the Hood

The wolves are in the woods tonight,
but I am not afraid.
Some wolves wear tweed with
patches on their sleeves and
smoke sweet tobacco
from a long stemmed pipe.
They crouch in the brush
and rarely howl.
Some wolves have rough hands,
black nails, tanned boots.
They howl loudly.
Some wolves are only cubs—
their hunger is great,
their yelps transparent.
Some wolves offer to
get you across the lake to
a better job, a better life.
You’ll drown along the way.
Some wolves know how to avoid traps.
Some pull and snarl,
red and hungry through the night.
Serves them right.
Some wolves only travel in packs
and like a good feeding frenzy.
Some wolves will blow your house down.
Some wolves wear silk ties
and gel their hair—
fists full of cash.
Their howls sound almost like speech.
Some wolves masturbate publicly
as if they’re in a cage.
Some wolves say grace
at the dinner table,
read stories to their children.
Lie next to their wives
in bed each night.
Some wolves are in the woods tonight,
but I am not afraid.
I know every disguise,
Plus grandma has a gun,
and she’s not afraid to use it.

38th Summer

A woman sits alone on the twilight steps of a Pocono house.
She smokes a cigarette, holds an empty glass,
watches her son toss a ball with the boys next door.
Hair wet down her back from a cool shower,
legs of a willow bent to her chest,
shoulders russet, lean;
she is July, except for her eyes,
dark caves closing where moonlight used to be.
And a thickening in the middle
from the pills she takes for her moods.
She looks toward the woods
where her husband saw a black bear that morning.
Her son won’t play outside without her
so she sits and smokes, glancing at the canopy,
leaves that move with the breeze.
She thinks, for a moment, of a man
who hooked her need to be held
hooked her through the eye,
then threw her back blind.
She thinks her age has seized her this year
and wonders how she lost that lead
without hearing the quick steps behind her.
She asks what worth for her, this life,
when the pond has been emptied of fish
and the mountains are thick with
rocks and trees, rocks and trees.
Squinting beyond the thicket,
she looks for signs of a black mother bear
who could tear her, these boys, raw
with one swipe of her claw.
There is only one place to go, she thinks,
stepping on her cigarette and calling her son in for dinner.
The screen door slams, as birds with ragged wings
circle high above the mountains.
August 1999

She Will Move

She will move toward nothing in that isolate boat.

Move toward nothing in the boat made of

pills and powder, dirty water.

Move toward nothing in the boat made of

men who use her empty rooms.

Move toward nothing

in the boat made of

black air, dog eared nights, wretched twine.

Move toward nothing

in the boat made of

curdled milk, kitchen farce.

Only the cold peaks of the ocean ahead, behind.

Light comes and goes.

Supplies run dry.

She drinks salt water from her hands.

The others, who are rowing,

plead with her to stop,

swear they see a finger of land

stretched in the distance.

She cannot see it.

Only a hole ripped through the horizon,

which is where she has always wanted to go.

The Beauty Contest

This poem has big white teeth and red lips.

This poem has a practiced smile,

winks at the judges:

pick me! pick me!

This poem is clumsy in

Its high heels and swimsuit

but has very nice thighs.

It is pure and freckled.

It cares about education and hungry children.

It is cute, and wants to be famous.

This poem looks good

in stained overalls and thick-soled boots.

It doesn’t wear lipstick,

but secretly wants to.

It builds a birdhouse,

travels pristine landscapes alone,

has ambivalent feelings toward men.

It pretends to question its sexual preference.

It pretends to ignore the judges.

This poem is exhausted.

It wants to go to sleep, but can’t.

It wants to make that last sashay

across the stage

in hopes that it will be the one

wearing the crown-

mascara running,

mucous bubbling from her nose

in front of thousands of people.

Special Education

Driving back past the playground
after leaving another meeting
to name the special needs of my nine year old boy,
I slow to spy him
bright and glaring yellow in his fat down jacket.
He is crouching, peeling pieces of bark
from a tree that the other children use for base.
He smiles slightly when they run near,
but keeps a keen search for bugs
nested and nestled beneath the snow dusted bark.
He’s always loved the busy crawlers, hidden in nooks,
multi-legged creepers I used to crush or spray
before the day he begged I spare them,
quoting from his books, telling me
not to be afraid of these creatures-
beautiful, misunderstood.
He says he wants to be a scientist
decipher the language of the spider,
teach people that they are precious—not dangerous.
I pull over to the curb,
eye on the rearview mirror,
and hurt again, to the bone,
for the loneliness of a boy
who can spin brilliant designs with the ease
of the yellow fat spiders that
grace the posts in our garden,
but can’t risk a game of tag with the boys,
fend off the assault of daily sound and motion,
escape the labels: disabled, disordered, disturbed—
stop himself from crying so easily,
being wounded so quickly.
Michael told me once that spider’s silk is stronger than steel-
they send each other messages by tapping signals on a line.
And someday, he says, thanks to him,
everyone will finally know
just what they are trying to say.

2002

Nostos (For my student Luis, who served in Iraq)

We read The Odyssey

that spring

you sat

in my classroom

near the door-

back covered by the wall.

You never said a word,

but one day gave me

scrolls that told

of  an epic through

a red sand sea

I saw the first man you killed,

first road side check,

knuckle cold pulled from his white robe.

Your finger was quicker

then black scattered ash:

the man who was then half a man

dragging himself to a deep well;

drowning would be better

than bleeding out where hips and legs

and groin and feet and knees

and belly 

used to be.

As an act of kindness

you aimed for his brain.

You speak of long dreamless sweat burnt nights,

Long Island grass turned to sand

the sudden appearance of roadside bombs

on the L.I.E.

We talk about the ocean--

the things you love

a dark-eyed south shore girl

concerts in the park

long letters

thunderstorms

honor.

You  never skipped a page

and seemed to understand

the poetry of a strange land.

The warrior with his proud sword,

dead man’s helmet

under his arm,

comrades

lost on the blood teeth of monsters

(as the terrible Pentagon gods chew

the bones of your brothers…)

 We don’t talk politics

Only the myth of Odysseus,

longing to claim what is his

sailing the wine dark sea

to a home beyond repair.

That Woman

Don’t ever believe that woman,

the one who smiles brightly.

slides a stocking up her leg,

gives you your car keys, cigarettes,

a kiss without a shadow.

Never leaves a scratch on your back,

a note in your pocket-

just flutters a casual wave of the hand

as she pulls from the lot after checkout.

Don’t ever believe the woman

who shimmers and writhes like a snake

while you watch through the glass.

She is the goddess who takes dollar bills,

the buttery cut, happy

to stew in her own sweet juice

while you stutter, grunt and come.

Don’t ever believe her

When she claims not to mind

the scrapes down her legs,

when she says

she can turn men to swine.

She spreads her flesh thin

across so many lovers-

they are, in her sight,

only one hungry beggar.

One scum-crusted thief.

Don’t believe her when she swears

with each castaway glance,

shift of her hips,

shrug of her smoke-drift shoulders

that she isn’t dying for love.

For inside her shape shifting skin

sits a child

pulling up wool winter socks

on a lonely weekday dawn.

And inside is a morning sun

bound to blaze and blossom;

bloody crown breaking through

the flesh of the horizon.

(Published by Prehensile Press)