i can tell you this

i can tell you this:

unraveled, unraveled,

after time outside time,

i see our wispy crossings of those divides

between what would be and what would be,

and they were tiny roots, tiny buds.

ago were grass and clean air

and not polished mahogany and

ago were bus rides and bicycles

and uncomplicated things

and we chose the possibility of sun

over peonies.

over, over, over, years

we crossed and crossed and crossed, sped and

we crossed together.

and then hot fluid rained down inside and around me

and i was alone again and separate

and lost and robed in ugly,

in brown nothingness nullity brown and chewing ashes i fell

and i fell down in a rumple at your feet.

your beautiful feet.

faithfulness

Then

i thought we were alike in our exaltation

because together we made chaste pilgrimages to the mystical.

believing in the miraculous

and greedy we traveled frequently

and knelt by the injuries emptinesses and 

carelessly pooled aches inside ourselves

that wanted healing: the episodes of twisting limping 

darknesses the lisping songs of passion and scorn.  

we were exposed, and eased.

longing and congress were our common prayer

i thought.

then adorned with scars: we became tidy structures 

graceful seeing fluent and recognized.

and we gathered under fragrant trees 

upon pillows of crushed needles

and were censed with this hot perfume:  of juniper, sage

ponderosa pine.

this aroma sweet and dry

curling about the body of us and carrying it to away.

longing and congress were our common prayer

i thought.

  

Now

i know you will grant me blessings, confirmation and

perform the ritual of sacrifice

and you will offer that holy, that heaven, and clemency. 

those, but not all of creation.  not you.

you are a conduit for the divine

and carefully, completely possessed

of your separateness, your dedicated flesh.

you serve small tender fragments that disappear, become me. 

and  you are one and i am another and we both know this but.

will you hear my confession:  i have failed.  

and you place your warm palm upon me

and i am flooded and

you are promised elsewhere.

ex-lover

you with the pussy willow tongue

whispering after winter that spring has come

How dare you?

after blizzards and hailstorms i take off my bulky things

feeling rather calm

and here you come again

and i without even one galosh

am ambushed by the storm.

i thought you were gone.  or if not gone then at least invisible like the wind.

you with the azalea hair.  yes, you. 

i am invisible like the wind to you and want you to go

rush your tornado up someone else’s bones. 

this bluster, this temper of me is not sinister and i don’t doubt :

you cause hunger and fever and though i always knew that,

when i think it now i think:  he is a beautiful disaster causing hunger and fever

and not in a good way.

thanks though.  i mean, if it weren’t for the blooms of you

dandelion chest, hyacinth brow

i would not know what I do now

if it weren’t for the seasons of you,

sometimes fair, mostly foul,

i would not know what i do now. 

cancer time

hardcold and highedged

snowlight comes in.

in from the outside

and now against this white

wall that paler thing.

sequentially but almost

all at once: it shifts

with

flutt,

with heave

and shudder,

gloss.

in movement

a single beesting.

try it:  try to rein light.

chase color and

speed.  appreciate constantly and

it  slows.  maybe ceases.

moving fast

through the left of

what’s given and knowing that.

it seems so.

so quick

time can

vanish.  or never exist at all.

end or never start.  a matter of

focus.  on the light

at the moment.

and it follows:

dissolution to un.

unforeseen.  unknown.  maybe lovely

the light right now

it's this shimmer.

it's this pale

pearledblue on the wall.

and describing a vein through tender skin

is just passing through

anyhow.

and this is reverence

choosing to ornament herself and

stand still for admiration,

she knows she cannot claim the praise but

revels in it despite that fact: 

because she is only human after all. and

people have limits

adorned with silver and stones:

tender rise,  cloudless hollow

you proclaim a miracle

so do flowers dress the chancel.

illuminated from a source unseen:

lush abyss, supple junction,

you elevate the familiar

so is water consecrated.

there are those who look away.  of course.                   

of course there are the faithless.

those who marvel at the divine

stop in her low cut blouse

because we are only human after all. 

                                                                       photo by Markus Hutnak--Thank you! 

an important rock

before we were immense and solid,

in some epoch and eras ago

before time counted,

you and i were plain matter

clear flat rumblings of the underneath

of all that would be.

then fiery rush,  forward flow

cascade and cool and on that one summer day

in a dusty space, woven curtains drawn, yellowed dim with no glare

it was sudden and familiar:

a deep plume opened and

we were.   a dark and fine grained thing

in some brave flooded basin, rearranging mantle.

aboriginal.

jet in a high golden desert

fast among wind tossed brush

banks towering over the rise and run of a snaking river and

we had no idea:

we could shatter we could ablate we could be rubbed to small

and then away

this science of forces was the frail underlie

of our separate everlastings.

the aweless are not careful.

ancient stacks rounded down

settled apart,

we are the color of faded straw.

but induration is not temporary and here is the proof:  far away,

you see me in the sea floor and in the curve of your cheekbone

when you look in a mirror.   i see you in fertile fields

and the flour dusting my hands.

remember this:  we burst forth sharply and with commotion

and confusion and

lived burnlessly brilliantly, and glowing.

we were substantial.

remember this:  in the cold lava flow of us and

in that space in you, in that space in me

where now only God is

we are blessed.

old love

it is not baroque and
shine.  it is
lightning in
corduroy clouds.

     not
     cloisonne
     cloisonne,
     lalique or lalique or
     that thinly sliced ivory
     inlaid
 
it is plain.  
a plain heat.
blind flashing
in
corduroy clouds.

fall and rise and be seen/some kind of genisis redux

now.  a fragile hesitant provocation,
at last and trembling                look:

this is a small feral thing resting here in my opened hands, newly hatched, wet and wispy, hungry.  see this tender, this terrible disclosure:  a pale and hairy ripening, a forgetting to breathe and then breathing, a potential, a smooth skinned warm wonder and this.  it is an uncommon it is a sharpened honed smudge of me.  and if you greet

always this shy this narrowing course of rush and recoil, stuttering through spaces left between us, soothing, smoothing the receipt of broad blank backs,  aspiring to squared shoulders by looking in, or elsewhere.  for that yes.  nothing is this void nodescript and though there are no simple translations for treasure or debt, describing circles around them is, would be some kind of admission.

silence echoing doubt echoing silence and trying to adopt that foreign tongue means choking because Yes.  a Force raw ragged enchanting.  an Infinity.  against the poison wordlessness, venom silences this petition, this offering, this sweep kaleidoscopic will not stunt.  and worn down or built up finally endlessly:  Look.  it is quite plainly here.  and now calamitous

now:  clarity can come after the momentary mess of this moist white straight splotchy dry red holding open of the very palms of me, and bright eyed in this bared, this finely lined universe here now is everything.  facadeless allness and something inarticulate and transparent is being revealed.

will you glance, or gaze upon this will you cast your eyes toward suspension, or toward that wall will you pause will your hearts race will you recognize sweet merit

or will you see burlesque.  you may be so jaded.

this history of betrayal.

treasons can be small freeings.  ruthless unfoldings.

dulcet lullaby

After all:  Forsythia is flowering, and the assurance of absolution blossoms also, now feverishly, just as the landscape flashes after long coldness into a blaze of yellow.  This is grace.  This is:  renewal, lightness, and hope.  This is remembrance of sacrifice for the forgiveness of our sins.   This soothing, this sting. 

After all.  Divinity is not something we can ever achieve, though we may strive. 

After all: though we’d had our era of ice, your eyes shone in their triangular blue fashion when we came together again.  And we were lovely.  Soon then it was the end and you died valiantly, denying mortality and working until you coiled up one morning in bed and surprising: took a last gasp.  The architecture of you emptied:  I entered the swirl for the first time, dipping slowly to assemble our us.   And then I left, to gather the disbanded.

After all: I treasure the broken prop from your boat motor; the rusty oyster knife you gave me and never accused me of stealing; the Styrofoam cooler with a “FISH ON” bumper sticker slathered across the front, once full with ice and Hama Hama oysters; and memories I swear are real.  In time, cleansed, peace came here to bloom.

After all: exoneration, merciful love, these are of grave import.  Watery recollections of winks, warm square hands on my wedding day, and our talk of the weather were consequential.  And then: a familiar signature pressed onto paper well after our détente, which demonstrates a lack of faith. In me.  How weak is my twisted conviction.

After all:  you died skinny and bismuth yellow and without parting assurances.  Humble:  it caught you.  Ugliness and earthliness and, even as it ripped rage to the surface, its violence too reminds.   We are minor.  We are the unsplendid.

After all.  After all:  bathing in the memory-clotted gel of time, back and forth and back, years of circling through the wet, immersed in the teary sea that swelled after your death, I realize finally that what I was kissing was your yawn.

And how can this happen now, with the forsythia blooming around me, when we cannot kneel toward each other and hope?  


----

previously published at nancy kiefer art/diva creativa   http://www.nancykiefer.com    april 2010

thinking of loved ones this morning redux

in those sitting on branches moments
those thinking of loved ones today mornings
she lolled she reclined in that generous, verdant scaffolding.
and she was cradled.

and she could see clear her place
those olden those smooth rubbed blonded bones
fragile bones hollow bones of the bird she used to be.
and it was suffocating.

step-arachnid

arachnid one dressed fancy
in haired pants of sewn up lies
jigging on his gravestone
which is only in my mind

octobitch is laughing with eight
worm red globe red eyes
my father got the cancer
you were his vile bride.



---

previously published in Mad Swirl, summer 2011

family reunion/dead babies III

that fluted champagne and those voluptuous cries and
kissing closed the separations. and exchanging sincethens
and we were landless we were floatingtogetheragain and

later in that album on the table in the hall i saw crushed windows. 
a torpedoing jag of empty, the blue lips a snagged a rusted hole and
silent.  a never an always in that photograph of one birthday sincethen.

those lush and creamy 
those hotel walls they were too thin
for the sudden springing of
my bared my unearthed grief.

passing the time (for those who know, with understanding)

upstairs at night
i pray
for your cold tongue
on my skin

and even so, i'm in that black slip, alone.
you and your rubik's cube.  why don't you come upstairs?
and i think of those who keep lovers and then
tell myself:  some things are not relative.

(nervously then:
not the abortion
not the looting
and what about taking the lord's name in vain?)

so i just pray on
for your cold tongue
for you to solve the puzzle
and for forgiveness.

dead babies II

fluted champagne and voluptuous cries, and kissing.
closing the separations and exchanging sincethens
we were landless.  we were floating, togetheragain

and later in that album on the table in the hall
i saw crushed windows, a torpedoing jag of
empty, blue lips a snagged a rusted hole and
silent.  swaddled.  embraced.  one photograph of
a never

and those clean and creamy hotel walls
the were too fine to house that sudden springing
of the bared my unearthed grief.

dead babies

fluted champagne and voluptuous cries, and kissing.
closing the separations and exchanging sincethens
we were landless.  we were rolling down a grass hill and
counting stars, looking for deer with flashlights.  floating, togetheragain

and later in that album on the table in the hall
i saw crushed windows, a torpedoing jag of empty,
blue lips a snagged a rusted hole and silent. 
swaddled.  embraced.  one photograph of a never

and my heavywellstowedlid slipped aside.
and the clean and creamy hotel walls were too fine
to house the bared the springing the gusts shoving
loose from that unearthed tiny coffin inside me.

transportation

such a pretty thing
watching knife fights and rats scuttling
through the emptied train station and then
spreading on boulders at the edge of salted azure:
that campari stained sky and
that mars and
the morning a fried egg bleeding and
being awake.

full bearded.  and sharp curves came
when it was night, with sealed black air to breathe
and falling off the roof of that bus
and rolling down unbroken
to the dark embrace of that ditch
until daylight rose and else could be seen and
until then, careless sleeping.

and those deep hot kisses against airport walls,
sockless afternoons
and being unclothed fish somersaulting in icewater
at the top of some mountain here, or there.
long curled hair and sawdusted floors
and that one fiddle bow slicing
thin and straight.

shrieking between questions and questions.
our wildness was such a pretty thing.

louise

recently she left

the she spinning from mere observation
and fingertips
the webs and iron spiders
that straddled chasms,
she left.  she sewing
buttons on doll clothes and
sculpting men from mud.
confronting and living
like she, she left.

and without her
we are only us
with spidermares
and dolls dressed off-the-rack,
and poverty.
our poor unseeing eyes.

the publishing conundrum

i find it odd that now that i have begun writing again, and have dared to show my writing in this format, i have just two days ago pulled the poems that i loved the most from this site, in order to begin submitting them for consideration for publication in various journals.  i hadn't realized that being here was being'published' so now that i am boldly proclaiming my openness to being seen, i have also removed the guts of my stuff--can't have previously published stuff submitted, and as odd as it is since although probably my favorite people had seen my writing here, i don't think very many people would have seen the stuff, down they had to go.

so now i would like to have some other conversations...about the really important stuff.  like:  what is the difference between good art and magnificent art (which question a deardear asked the other day, but that is haunting, really); how do we define home; what's the best book on your night table right now; which films do you love right now; etc. etc.   ideas?  we'll talk more later.  right?

some kind of genesis

now.  a fragile hesitant provocation,

at last and trembling                 look:

this small feral thing resting here, newly hatched, wet and wispy,

hungry.  see this tender, see this terrible disclosure:  a pale and

hairy and beautiful ripening, a potential, this smooth skinned warm

wonder and this.  it is uncommon, a

A force raw ragged enchanting.  this Infinity.  against venom wordless

quiet poison this magnitude, this abundance is kaleidoscopic will

not stunt and worn down or built up finally endlessly:  look.  it is quite plainly here.  and now

                                        are you glancing, gazing upon this

                                        are you casting your eyes toward vastness

                                        are you pausing

                                        does your heart race

                                        do you recognize sweet

merit.  or do you see burlesque.  you may be so jaded.

now.  i am holding open my very palms and you are in this

bared this finely lined universe i see you here and now.

something inarticulate and transparent is being revealed.

treasons can be small freeings.  ruthless unfoldings.

thinking of loved ones this morning

on the mornings she awakens filled

and certain that her wanting bones cannot lift her up

she takes a moment

and flits in her mind to loves

and sings to the black blued sky

and steadies herself as the sun rises

and so she is become

a small bird in verdant scaffolding

i watch her soar:  it's shattering