Cleaning Up

(A Modern Flood Story)

My wife was up late watching the waters

rise against the brick wall at the back

of our yard; the rain brought the creek,

black and murky at midnight, sliding

up into our life like a serpent – again.

Now she sighs and skims another bucket

full off the surface – it feels as though

this water, she says, will never go away.

We have bailed out this garage four times

in one year.  She twists up the corners

of her lips as she mouths the words

she doesn’t feel: at least it didn’t hit

the house; the foundation is safe

this time; we will not have to leave.

She will fill the bucket, wade outside,

throw the water into the receding creek

as many times as it takes.  We have

sacrificed more than sweat: comfort, the first

floor, a pair of pets.  We have done nothing

to raise a just God’s ire, did not question

the first flood, the second, the third.

For His Wife,

who may be the things I am not

You may be the voice at midnight

that slices the darkness in half,

tears the sheet of sweat away

from his skin as he is clutched

by a nightmare.

You may be the warm hand that slides

along his palm, the grasp that stops

the tremble of his fingers from breaking

another glass, dropping a napkin,

unlighting a match.

You may even be the softness

that coils against him in bed,

against the hard knot that means

goodness, that means desire,

that means he remembers you.

But you cannot give him what I can:

words in verse, love as a transitive

verb, unmodified by conditions.

Love Song for a Poet
for D

In the bar, you said
the thing I wanted to hear
but not admit to. I flushed,
felt a shift between us.
I didn’t understand you
were speaking in metaphors,
wrapping your words up
to conceal their meanings.
When you explained, the shift
became clear: I am the one
with the secrets.

I will say it now, aloud:
I want to be your muse,
know each stroke of your pen
is inking the paper with my skin.
I want to be the verbs crawling
from your mouth, the nouns
you grip in your fists.

But now, I read your poems
and I know: these are not
for me. The narrator is not you.
The subject is not us.

Memory: Karen

Your face flashes and blends,

just pieces tumbled together

by a fat spinning blade:

Here, you are thin, tall,

purposeful.  You stride.

You are authority.  The pink

coil at your elbow dangles

a key – you own the shifts,

the schedules.  You wear this

all well.

Then – laughter.  Sun

glints on the cat-eyed frames

of your glasses.  It is loose,

this moment, easy, like your hair –

strands floating on the rush

from the open windows.

Next? Music. Bodies. The audible

push of breath from lungs,

the slow hip-swing. Your hands

are up, swimming through air,

delicate fish. Rhythm is in you,

around you.

Finally dimness, the bar-dark

lighting you have lived beneath.

Smoke frames your face in soft

gray lines.  You try to quench

a thirst you’ve had for years.

You call it love, say you can

own it, say it belongs to you.

But you belong somewhere, too –

somewhere else. It’s something

you haven’t found.