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I wonder if my body

or my husband (What's 

your name again?)

will release me from

one of these prisons?  I lay

here wondering if its

a cell of graying, stretching skin

frayed in its edges and cuticles.

Minnesota’s nickname is “Land of 10,000 Lakes”;

"Land of 10,000 Liver Spots" is my body's

nickname. Dotted and mottled lakes of

blurred brown leaking into vacant

pale spaces a field misspent, bereft. Or is

it four walls with a 10’x12’ checker-board

floor stained with urine. Whoever

thought that pale-green paint

(sea –foam is for mother-in-law suites)

soothed hot, leaking nerves was an asshole.

Obviously he doesn’t know

a thing about ripe pain.

The point, of course, is

that I cannot.

Harvest

I must admit,

I thought I’d never

hold your hand.

Remember when we

walked to the cemetery? I

should have been more

considerate of your feelings

and your upbringing. But your

skirt hemmed just below your

mid-thigh panted for you.

We lay down, the headstones

above our heads, steely cityscapes

against an empty sky.

A shadow within a shadow,

colder somehow, even

under a sun that exposed

more than we were

ready to see.

The headstones became dead stones,

interrupted your rhythm, my timing

so we crushed nearby

corn stalks to hold our body’s

weight against the sharp field

and we kept time like

ancient metronomes.

Love Collides

A girl alighted

along a leaf-strewn path unaware

of the birds

that frolicked before

her. On a bike a

boy rode frightful

full of wrath

on a collision course with

love, for sure.

For a lad

such as this it will

be hard to

mend a torn

heart from where there is

nothing to rend. 

Ulcer

How does a gut

know the difference

Between:  a dread, or a disquiet, an unease—

it follows me: from the breakfasttableto

mydressertomycartomyjobtomylunch

tothesuppertabletothelaundrytomybed

tomydreamtomysoul—is there such a thing?

And:  an expectation, or a calm, untroubled—

it follows me: from the breakfasttableto

mydressertomycartomyjobtomylunch

tothesuppertabletothelaundrytomybed

tomydreamtomysoul—is there such a thing?

That comet explodes at the same bizarre

rate with the same intensity and

meanders and mazes itself through

the width of my capillaries

and the chutes of my veins

bleeding itself out of my

yielding pores.

That kind of rage and celebration

are troublesome dance partners

dancing a crooked two-step

with no music.

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There is a sound:

It reminds me of

brown paper towels from

the men’s room being

coerced into drying dirty hands,

And walking on bleached

cornhusks through a maze

at a pumpkin patch louder

than an exhausted hay ride,

And an apology note crumpled

by a hand that wants to write what

it wants not what

should be written;

I imagine the dark space of

the paper towel rounded sharp,

and the shadow of the husks

a damp dark,

and the words an emery board on

too short a nail whisper just past

the note.

All of those crevices, all

of those slight and grand chasms.

There’s a kind of finality to that sound:

of drying hands,

of walking on dead things,

of the unrealized stab of a word.

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When I feel like a dried chicken bone

ready to crack and splinter, or

brittle sandpaper that’s been wetted

and dried, wetted and dried, or

a throat that’s parched and gagging,

I imagine it all like baking topsoil.

I want to get into my car and

drive, drive, drive:

There’s something to be said for being honest

with someone else. But doesn’t it say more

when I’m honest with me?

If my car bent itself into or around or

through or behind, into shards of

cartilage and marrow, burgundy and

full of rot,

it would not be so bad, I suppose.

The Greatest Show On Earth (a curtain call)

The Greatest Show on Earth (Circus Ring 1)

We had gathered again for Christmas.  

Each one of us aching, uncomfortable,

a coarse wool scarf around a bare neck.

The wind was low and swept across the barely

dying grass of the “Care Center.” Too warm

for snow but cold enough. The Greatest Show

on Earth is not Barnum & Bailey’s Circus.

The greatest show on earth is the spectacle

of a family at Christmas. One

performed by family members every

year, actors and mimes, people that mouth and move

and that have memorized their parts over

a lifetime.  A three-ring circus with clowns

and acrobats, a strong man and a fat

lady. Freaks and freak shows. Toothless grins and

sunken cheeks by hallway actors that do

nothing more than disgust the audience. 

The Greatest Show on Earth (Circus Ring 2)

The wheels squeaked and squelched a kind of testament,

wall bumpers nicked with careless turnabouts

Nothing more than languid resentment

That calls to question a familiar route.

Old portraits of patrons and tinsel dust the wall

Wryly grinning at what’s behind the door

Now witnesses to seeing them flailing all

Helpless and bare, fleshy stains on the floor.

A call to the chair for respite and relief,

One could only hope it didn’t creep away

Once thought of as ephemeral and brief

Has become entrenched, a place to stay.

A fond memory of what legs could too

Somehow makes it all the more sacrilege

Between the vomit and the mistletoe dew

Teetering, looking over the dark ledge.

The Greatest Show on Earth (Circus Ring 3)

A brief rain reminded her

Of a time

When she was more whole

A twirl and a twist

A girl in

A pink mist, subtle movement

A swing, a sudden push

Landing hard enough

For the pain to find

Itself inside a space that

Cannot be named

But names itself to her

A marriage to a boy

And to a

place, on a well-lit street

A child or two or

Three. Pain labored

Itself each push and push.

And finally, it came by

To say, “Hello,

Remember me?” It’s time.

Finale

And we are here.

The final act. The

tree is down and

the shimmer of tinsel

and sequined angels

are stifled, boxed

for another year.

The chair has

found its harbor

again against the

shore of a steel

frame. Anchored for

another season,

(for a life).

And what was

left? The quiet

swish of an

automatic door closing

us out and her in.

The directions are clear:

rehearse your lines for

another year. Practice

your movements, your mime’s

pace. Be sure to grab

the audience’s attention,

their full attention;

especially hers. (Even

if she doesn’t

know you’re there.)

What’s heard after the show…

“I suppose that

A beautiful life

Cannot be full

Of beautiful

Things.”