Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Five Years

does it ever get old,
this second chance at life?

aging is a mother-loving blessing
and every morning is a milestone.

at 17 i didn't think i'd live past 35
and told Alec this when i was 27.

i died no doubt.
buried sadness,
made more room,
and let a kidney resurrect a better me.

i've always been a hugger,
but now i hold on longer
because no one is counting
and touch is my memory shaper.

in these five years
i've touched the cliffs in Ireland
i've touched the toes of new born babies
i've touched the lips of women i love
i've touched the walls of a homemade prison and said goodbye
i've touched the fur of my pups
i've touched scars and cancer, breasts and hips
i've touched the strings of chords in songs i dreamed of writing
i've touched pages of novels that ignited my brain
i've touched the wool in weavings spun by a woman i adore
i've touched skin that gave me goosebumps
i've touched the peridot stone on my left ring finger
i touched the fading pulse of my dying mother.

when she gave me her kidney,
she cleaned out the garbage
and taught me the depth of love.

(before my blood was clean
i was convinced love meant struggle
so i embraced some bruises
and i cried silently in corners.)

when she gave me her kidney,
she cleaned out the garbage
and taught me the depth of my life.

i pause for flowers in fields, i pause for cloud shapes in the sky,
i pause for strangers on the sidewalk, i pause for kissing goodbye
i pause for memories in the making, and i pause to write down these words.

if you give me a kidney, i'll give you reflections on what it means to be alive
every year
until i die.

Thursday, August 3, 2017


(the eggplant couldn't wait
so i held it between my fingers and bit it
while i walked beside her.
the tall man born in the Netherlands said,
"peripatetic eggplant'
so i promised him poetry for breakfast.)

sit seven secure women at a table
and i drift and dream of matriarchy in the white house.

i will smell last night forever
and request a lifetime of conversations that crawl toward midnight
   with fever, cocktails, and Paul
(the tall Netherlands man.)

i don't believe sweat has color
so throw away what's pink and blue
and just pay me for every drop of salt on my forehead.

i want men who look me in the eye,
who balance respect with admiration on their tongue,
who share unfamiliar words, encourage risk,
and trust my body is connected to my brain.

i want women who drive women into independence,
who seek solution over opinion,
who hold each other in darkness
and let go when sunlight calls,
  because there is a world to run.

i am peripatetic
i cherish women
  and Paul.