Her Phantom Fingers
Her phantom fingers find me
—sometimes —
in the maudlin morning,
periwinkle ribbons
sweeping the tops of
the woods below
my window,
and — perhaps —
she brushes my forehead,
pushing aside my boyish bangs,
like a feather tickle,
and her familiar
hushes my harrow,
reigning in the rain,
clearing away the clouds,
like breakfast dishes,
the day ripe for picking,
the sun fulgent,
my clothes laid out on
the bed,
corners tucked,
pillow fluffed,
a note in my lunch pail,
soup tight in the thermos,
my textbooks
in hand,
her voice silken
and sincere,
arms embowed
like a cradle,
those filigree fingers
urging me
into the world,
and I
smile
and go into
the fray
with fortitude.
Nocturne
You swallow
the lemon drop
sun
and inculcate twilight
like an ocean wave
across the summer firmament,
undulating with swaths
of tangerine-pink-amethyst
ribbons
fading into fuzzy, blue-cured black,
rippling
with fireflies,
crickets on call,
guttural toads
belching
on a stream of
steam,
stars pulsing,
the moon
hung like an ornament,
dangling low,
the breeze surrendered,
suspended,
pregnant,
anticipatory,
stop gapped
like corked champagne,
as you wend your magic
through my open window,
your permeating esse
infusing me,
lazy and limp,
with the tap
of salt
on my lips,
viscid sweat slides
like seduction,
perfume of peonies
hovering in necromancy,
summoning me
to embrace
like a lover
your mythology,
passion,
potency,
unfathomable
power.
Enslaved
Her mercurial musings
untethered me
as we lay
in the after urgency
her hair knit up
in my fingers
beating breast
to heaving chest
skin stuck
to sweaty sheets
my spillage
dripping.
If she sent me
to the mountain
I would
climb
if she ordered ocean
I would
swim
if she whispered
murder
I would
squeeze the trigger
if she
set me aside
I would be
satisfied.
My Daylily Childhood
Grandma grew daylilies
along the east side
of the Jordan Drive house,
and every day in June they
bloomed like little orange
firework bursts,
their faces uplifted to the sun,
a single day of life,
brilliant, bright, vibrant,
a marmalade retinue of glorious buds
peeled back like tangerine rind,
fluttering in the early summer breeze,
hapless but happy.
They were the backdrop of my
halcyon days:
tossing that speckled ball
fished from a wire cage
at the Ben Franklin,
sloshing in the little inflatable pool,
dodging that long, green snake of a hose,
plucking and munching garden tomatoes,
corralling crickets
into mayonnaise jars,
riding on Grandpa’s lap
aboard the lawnmower,
cutting across that golden acre,
resplendent,
unburdened,
sated.
And so, I have transplanted
their ocher progeny
in the eastern corner of my home,
their faces upturned to the same sun,
too-brief lives splendid
and pure,
and each June morning
when I gaze upon their enclave
at the foot of the screened porch,
they whisper to me,
not in words
but echoes
of continuity,
souvenirs
of the continuum,
remembrances
of the infinity
of my daylily childhood.
American Anthem
I plead from my
patriotic prison
but you ignore my warning,
twisted in the tricolors,
blinded by insurrection,
your bullet bravery
borne with abandon,
shadowed in conspiracy,
rigor mortis ready,
warped machismo
drawn like a dagger,
dripping with insolence,
sacrificing the Vulnerable,
the Disenfranchised,
the Others
at the altar of tribalism,
your faces painted with poison,
blood-smeared and vulgar,
while I stretch tiptoe
naked, hoarse, depleted
behind
these beautiful bars
entreating,
imploring,
beseeching you to
cease and desist
before
the scorch
ashes us all.
