some nights the moon is a train

it takes me a while

to love things.


but then i am

loyally locked in.


the colonial blue

house holds the


key, but no door.

in the back-ground,


the long bow of the

cello sings up from


the depths. one floor up,

children grow in their


beds. dad used to tease

about putting us in a vice


overnight. i took his words

to heart: the dreams that


shortened me still follow—

strong shadows of


nails and hair; of things

that once lived, fighting


to weave them-selves

back in, back to life.


some nights the moon

is a train. i am boarding


her, i am carrying

alstroemerias, i am


smiling as the tiny

gear of a whisper


turns. the shrieking,

pulsing, turning to


blood is all in my

head; out-side, the


view is silent: a giant

wheel of compliance.





i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.


i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.


i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.


i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

from when you died

there are missing pages in my

diary from when you died.


it was not a time for growing

poetry; all the words went in-


to the eulogy—which made every

thing else seem meaningless: even


music felt foreign and wrong. i

questioned every thing—my job,


my place in the family, my space

in the world. all my energy went


into finding documents, finding

pictures, trying to find you in the


boxes and piles of audio cassettes,

ledgers, sewing kits, coffee mugs.


it wasn’t until much later that the

words began to knit together; they


were in my head all along—but

needed to be brought to cohesion.


there’s a reason this time remains in

my mind: it is a hunt, a meditation, a


docking station for the spirit. i must

remember the things that god can do.


i must remember that music is for

feeling, and poetry is for eating.


i must remember the empty pages

from when you died, with love.






you are the poem

sit silently with your self;

listen to your breath, to last

night’s dreams, to the hammer

heart-beats which carried you


through. listen again. do you

hear your treble, the shaking

space between your stanzas,

the tremble of your verse?


you are the poem.


stop letting in all the noise. make

your own noise—just for you. if you

don’t want to rhyme, don’t. let your

capitals go. be un-titled. let the







you. swim in the imagery, steep in

the buzz of beginning over that of

belonging. watch a being give

birth. you are the poem. it will


all be over soon. taste each syl-

la-ble in your mouth, feel the tug

of adrenaline in the pit of your

stomach: the closest to the center


of child hood you will ever get

again. take cream in your coffee.

romance your selves and those

clinging to them with satin


static. if you take a title, own

it; sing it out with each pulse.

hug the children, love the world,

speak the beauty, love the poem.


you are the poem.