3/15/2012

Why I Want to Learn to Draw

dispatches from middle age

My sight is fading fast. Every few months I have to buy new, stronger reading glasses. In the you never miss the water 'til the well runs dry mode I now realize how much I've lived in my head. Making up stories. Not seeing what's here. I'm counting on this soft pencil to focus what's left of my light.

Shearing Season

Shearing Season

A fleece arrives in a black plastic bag

in a brown cardboard box

and unfolds in one piece

on the porch, like a white buffalo rug

or a wooly afghan.

The street is quiet and she takes her time

spreading the wool in the sun

and rustling out the dust.

The heat of her hands melts the lanolin

which coats her arms and makes them glisten and smell

of the farm far away.

Soon she will make something of it,

but today

being here in the warm animal presence

is enough.

Over Time

Over Time

Our bodies begin to obey our pleasures

in middle age. Our laps open to receive our loves.

Our eyes dissolve the hard news into soft grey fur.

Even in sleep we weave up dreams

from the colored rags of our days

to soften our steps.

Weaving

Weaving

You have to be ready to touch it all,

to slide your fingers between the warps,

pushing down the weft.

You must kneel, squat, reach

as it demands.

Leave wool alone on the loom

for three days

and it draws evil spirits.

You must love it every moment,

even when you are sick to death of it.

And touch it, even in the places that cut.

The Forest

The Forest

The forest sleeps, wake her up.

The forest sleeps and her children are afraid.

The forest sleeps too long.

The honey is scarce and hard in the hive.

The animals fly through the nets.

The leaves hiss like panthers

as we walk loudly to the village,

clapping and singing songs of no meat.

The forest is sleeping like death.

If we wake her she will feed us.

If we wake her the babies will grow fat.

If we wake her the leaves will cool the huts.

But she grows thin in sleep

and we grow white with dust.

We are her children under the moon.

We slap the bottoms of each other's feet

to keep up our singing.

Before she is more dead.

Before she is completely dead forever.

Visitation

Visitation

Returning to the house he was so recently asked to leave
he waits in the kitchen,
a cup of gas station coffee in his gloved left hand.
She comes down to tell him they won't need him today;
school's called off and she's taking off work.
She offers to refill his cup.
If he has time.
While she runs water
he watches the down
behind her right knee,
the place she always missed while shaving.
Hard already, he unsheathes his hads,
slides them under his old tee shirt,
turns her,
tries to come home.

Love Among Survivors

Love Among Survivors

for AA groups everywhere

Charmed by real love

I commit magic in these streets.

Junkies propose marriage,

rapists place jackets over puddles,

rats sweep my floor.

Sent forth with real love's

awkward text

I wave my hand and

buses arrive on time,

rottweilers belly-up,

roaches slit their own throats.

Grinning,

arms gift-full,

I step into our story.

Back to Civilization

Back to Civilization

for Faith

Sweeping up butterflies

Checking out bloodied eyes

Cleaning the window panes

Kicking off shoes

Women and little boys

Stepping on cats and toys

Building a home again

Burning the blues

Road Trip

Road Trip

Stuck in Stuckey's with trucker's starin',

She's on display in downtown Herrin.