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uninvitedI cannot feel the cold,in the skin stretched tightover the tumbled stones of knuckle,the rippling ladder of muscles stepping upmy spine, arched,the stillness of the hunter,settling into dawn,and the easingof breath
when she cut out her voiceShe is lost and the monster is coming. Her head tilts and jerks like a bird balancing lightly on the bladed grass.There is a ringing phone in her hands and it confuses her so much her chest aches and she begins to rock, tracing the blue buttons as if they might speak. Press down. A voice.This she knows. This voice is strong and limber inside her whiplash of a body.So thirsty, she whispers. I got lost.She tunes in and out. The cadence of a voice who knows that to keep talking, on and on, means life to the listener who is trying to blend the music of voice and whispering corn blades and that far off discord that means danger.Later she will remember a joke the voice made and wake laughing and rocking with the joy of a child, run to the phone and dial over and over a number she cannot remember.But when a stranger with a calm voice and gentle hands takes the phone away and guides her to a chair with a piece of paper and a crayon she begins to write. And remembers the dis
dire wolvesThe coyotes are singing,high and wild,in the unsettled night; the moonis restless in her sky,the crickets hold their breath.The wolf at my feet is on high alert,body so intenseshe trembles, humslow in her throat -without the pack-songyou are the swift-hearted prey andthe night has sharp teeth.Only the keening of the packon their endless hunt.Only the aching.
the questionIf you ask meI will say yes.There is mystery hereand desireand you have already bent the worldaround each other.I have a thousand fantasiesthat cannot stand up to the imperfecthuman fact of knowingthat we will never knowunlessyou ask me to come homeand stay.
The C WordWords have power,the way the doctor asks you to sitbefore pulling out the C wordgod is not here in this room,watching us lob the conversation back and forthMy friend calls the instant before I call her,only three minutes on my phone butI need them. Past friends murmur slylyinside my head. Broken, needy,and when the call drops out I finally cry.It is the human response to needcomfort, compassion, a voicethat isn't being careful with every word.Here is god the unexpected ringing from my computer,the voice I need, a face, laughter,family.
untitledThe peril of being a poetis no one looks past the wordsand you are hidden in the uninvented languageof a new world,both more and less,you defy the boundaries of my penor the long conversation with a very old friendsitting on the porch in the dusk.You have done this to me,this injusticeof longing, vaguedissatisfactionwith the shape of the world.My hair is not purple because I alwayswished I could be that brave it is purple for you.I touch the erratic spikes hazing intomy carefully emboldened eyes.I want to become a new creature.A woman so powerfully alivethat when I speak of youthey may begin to understand,my glory is your shadow at high noon,time is not linear, you are notbreaking my heartand loving someone who is dyingmay not be the most difficult thing.You never made me pay for phonecallsin the night, while I rolled in the damp grass,slipped on the pain or stumbled over my ownself-respect.I cannot tell someone how you made mesee myself, how a fam