SEWING,
AFTERNOON
I was sewing.
It was after noon.
It was a little like speaking,
navy thread through knees
pulling –
It was summer;
you were perched on the backyard swing.
I lay on a towel behind the picnic shelter,
pale and
mostly uncovered.
Coil of sun over charred fences, hiss
of you and chewed-off rubber
high into the only tree.
I sliced oranges, spit seeds
into the dirt beyond my sandals.
I am sorry to have spoken
so bitterly, do I have you still?
Brown rug of mouse droppings I swept clean,
sweet-vicious lung virus to inhale,
sink into thick cloth
and kidneys shedding, ICU.
Sewing, sleeping,
our untied bodies spread
through the afternoon.
COMMUNION
To sustain life: salt,
and spicy fluid. Rain
behind the curtains,
rain in the parking garage,
fog between the highway
and Manitou Island, Perry Sound.
Reading Reza Aslan, a riotous following.
John the Baptist died, in fact, quietly
instructing Jesus in the wilderness –
he was not there to be tempted.
Or should we say.
I entertain old men,
my uncles, hung by the neck and
begging
to be cut down;
fail to immerse my children,
on we go.
They tear open packets
of freeze-dried chives and garlic,
microwave noodles.
Infirm and exacting.
THE BLUE HORNS OF SEMIS DRAG THE NIGHT
The blue horns of semis drag the night
across the bridge, concrete arch over our heads,
waiting for rain, streetlights on the overpass
pointing down, down like church spires in reverse,
like falling fountains, golden at the heart
of the plaza. Your brown hair is black now
with sweat and the wet night; you elbow me
as you pass. Geese gather on the water
between the sandbar and the shore, sobbing
for help; seagulls answer with a desperate
whine, a formidable choir. If only we could run
holding tightly to each other, spread our towels
on the moist sand, sit up later and rub our eyes
stinging from the sun, grey like new asphalt,
might we make it home safely once more time?
