She kept
her head
down–a
habit of
a lifetime.
The pack caught
her scent and
wolfed their way
across the parking lot–
eyes narrowed,
noses twitching,
teeth bared.
She looked up
her face falling
into its usual place–
grieving itself
against the
whiteness
of it all.
They retreated.
it moves from left to right
and calls your name
it preys and prays
and calls you to its side
to dress you dead
the sweet deliverance
of pills that know your name
the sound of your own voice
the hidden mystery of it all
to watch death is to die
codeine has the properties of gangrene
your nerves dance like hobbled ballerinas
on toes that look like blackened twigs
your spring has been a bitter season
grown sweet before its final blossoming
roots dipped in the alkali of too much love
andante-sweet dementia-praecox
is simply another word for prayer
this is the epic of your life
to die without birth
a requiem of pain
unannounced and unashamed
I couldn’t find
my way among
the trees so
I turned back–
the darkness,
an old friend,
welcomed me.
It took my hand
and lead me down
the garden path
and I was patient
in the moonlight,
for the first time,
I was patient.
I’ve loved so
many things
the singing birds,
the summer sky,
the coneflowers
but most of all
the weeping
cherry blossom tree
that sheltered
everything but me.
I’ve lost you
but most of all
I’ve lost myself
because we shared
so many things–
the falling leaf,
the polished stone,
the tall grasses.
I’ll look for you
again, someday,
but not today–
today I’ll write
a poem and paint
a picture of the moon
and dream of gardens
where flowers never bloom.
into the
world
she ran
blue girl
blue day
nine nurses burning
on a California bridge
incendiary
passersby
filmed death
on their cell phones
and drove away alive
three women held captive for ten years
no one noticed
everyone cared
I hold my fear
in my hand
like a flower
it blooms
in the bright
light of day
lives that
could have
been so different
if they had not lived
laughing and crying
every minute
every hour
every day
I am not afraid of love
it is afraid of me
it cowers on a San Mateo bridge
in an Ohio basement
women who were loved
stolen from their lives
held captive
set on fire
and made famous
by our curiosity
you make dinner
you wash the dishes
you set the clock
you lock the door
you go to bed
this is all about being alive
the small gestures
the unconscious acts
the slow forgetting
someone you love has died
when will love return
do you miss it more
than you miss him
even the birds are
silent in this mourning
you listen for their song
suddenly the sun
It did not belong to her,
it was not her memory;
yet, she remembers the
day–the white church with
the green roof, the sun hot
on her face, her mother and sister
lingering on the church steps,
the priest surrounded by young girls
and then the sound.
They all turned their heads,
one head on one neck,
twisting muscle, grinding bone,
turning, turning toward the sound.
It was before air bags,
before seat belts,
before soft metals
and rubber bumpers–
everything was hard.
It did not belong to her;
it was not her memory;
but she remembers–
the doors snapping open,
three white birds falling
to the ground, the open
mouth of her mother,
the blue eyes of the priest,
the smell of jasmine and incense,
a young girl screaming
and, then, silence.
I speak of nothing
and it speaks of me;
this speaking
is my poetry.
I stand alone
on this stark cliff–
a toothy girl
with hungry dreams.
They come
and leave
these fishy men
on boats of pine.
I call their names
with my sharp tongue.
My mouth is
full of words
I cannot say
and so I sing
of better days
that will not come.
A prisoner
of the gods,
I am at sea,
a monster
on a rocky shore,
always calling
and never heard,
always seeking
and never found.
As he changed; I changed–
our bodies flattening out
like images on a coin
rubbed thin by a God’s thumb;
That old man, who
once was young,
now seen only as himself–
stooped and graying.
My Priam,
father of two sons,
one faithful,
one foolish,
both Princes of Troy;
soldiers and heroes
all a wife has to give
to a husband
and all a mother
has to give to her
husband’s people–
such are the wages of marriage
and the price of war.
Listen Helen,
if you bear children
pray that they are girls,
not that they should
be exempt from battle,
for women also die in war;
but that they be exempt
from love and give themselves
instead to the gods,
a temple life,
where the marriage bed is unknown
and sons are things that other women bear–
stillborn warriors marching toward
embattled cities as if they were immortal
and made of steelier things than flesh.
Husbands and sons these are a woman’s lot
and, so, it is a joy to grow old
to turn away from the seductions
of a life spent with men.
Yes, an aging husband
in these hard days
is a glorious thing.
Value Paris and hope he lives
beyond the onslaught of this day
and angry Menelaus sitting
cross-legged outside of Troy’s gate. 
inside this lonely
landscape
of painted moons
and paper trees
I’m grateful
for the friendship
you’ve given me
you are a god
and I’m kithara
you play me
and I sing
a year ago
we met
or didn’t meet
beside a blossoming cherry tree
you turned your head and looked at me
and I saw everything I couldn’t be
but what I am is more than you can bear
the face of love
the face of death
a song without a singer
a wing without a bird
a poem written in the sand
we love
a different way than most
I let you go
you keep me close
we speak and never speak
we touch and never meet
who will ever love you quite like this
my gift to you is me
and that is all I’ll ever be
there is a wildness in flowers
that cannot be restrained
green goes to yellow
and what is lost returns
a thousand times a day
coneflowers will not obey
the rules and return as roses
in the middle of a sunny afternoon
melodies remembered
as one song return again
half forgotten half remembered
this is how I feel
where did we meet
so long ago
that I cannot forget
was I young
was I beautiful
was I full of hope
did you turn
around too quickly
leave too suddenly
stay too long
were we lovers
friends
strangers
lingering
in a distant garden
talking of cherry blossoms
the weather
a favorite song
the flowers know their fate
they keep it to themselves
they linger by the roadside
and leave at dawn
I’ve stayed too long
I thought that I would
come again this spring
but death stepped in
and took someone too young
it wasn’t me
I stayed behind
I grieve for him
and this is what I know of life
it’s all we have
the good
the bad
are all the same
we’ll meet again
it is our fate
and like the cherry blossom tree
we’ll shed our memories
to love once more
to speak to strangers
on a sunny day
to smile to pause
and then to walk away
rlmcdermott 