On the High Wire

balancing on tiptoe between faith and fear
I suddenly understand the need for parasols

not just to aid in fall-prevention measures
but to shield against the thoughts
that pummel down from clouds
where Worry waits

she must have played college ball
such an arm on her
hurling nuggets of nightmares
at my unprotected head
laughing when her aim is true

while I’m left gasping
trying to focus
on looking straight ahead
ignoring the fate
that will rush up to meet me
the second my footing is false

I would choose a pretty parasol
with two pink flamingoes
surrounded by red hibiscus flowers

their necks would wrap around
to form a heart

and people on the ground
would squint into the sun
and then move on
indifferent

worries don’t begin from down below

Former Lovers on Facebook

they post pictures of themselves
with their toddlers/beautiful wives/happy dogs
nothing to suggest
the horizontal hours we shared
when we were young and free

and if they don’t remember me?
and those days that shaped my knowledge of myself
were less than nothing meaningful for them?
only half-hearted glances back
at times they’d just as soon forget
and not the moments when we set the bars
by which all future lovers would be measured?

the man stretched out beside me
loose and lanky in his sleep
is neither memory nor mystery
and all I have to do is slide down next to him
to be embraced in warmth and sinew
unconcerned with histories or legacies
except to hold my face and say he’s sorry
that I ever shed a tear or spent a moment grieving
over any kind of loss

and all those stamp-sized faces seem so small
and looking in his eyes I have to kiss him
just to close the dangerous distance
between dissolving into lovesick adolescence
and spontaneously combusting in a fit of fever
and the only face I wish to read
is his wide open book of devotions
whispered nightly down my spine
and spread out oh so slowly over everything

Overnight in Joshua Tree

I bled on sheets that weren’t my own
and hid them from my hostess,
not knowing what to say or do
to cover my faux pas.

She was a performance artist
who liked to burn things up
while local townsfolk stood around;
the smoke became applause.

I later learned
her house burned down,
an act of jealous arson
by the married lover’s wife,
(those who play with fire and all that.)

Such relief, you cannot know,
the calcination of my stains,
particulate floating above the smoke
into the desert night
and then, at last, to nothing.

in an instant

walking through the world with the tears of forty years
embroidering the cuffs and collars
of my clothes
sleeves damp with weeping
the moist surface of living
the sharp inhalation of falling in love
or falling apart

premonition

the onset of madness
scares away the crows
all its shiny moving parts
floating in my eyes
above the crops you planted
before last summer’s drought

a la mode

sometimes the poetry comes unexpectedly
like a side of ice cream
on a slice of pie
sweeter than you planned
but still willing to make an exception
especially since you
didn’t intend to order it
which means you can’t really be faulted
for going ahead and eating it

Wisdom of Solomon

one blue eye for me, one blue eye for you
one right thumb for me, one left thumb for you
shuttling back and forth across the warp of our separate lives
we’ve made her life the weft
pulled tightly in opposite directions
stretched to the place between taut
and snap