Who Lights the Green of Spring?

Who warms the score of spring, so does entice
the daffodils to variegated light?
Who presses emerald quarter notes to slice
the winter earth as proof in her own right-
no voice may soil the land, no deed so dark
she cannot free the essence to transform
cruel acts to her melodic beauty mark:
crocus mastered in sonata form.
Her tulips burst to song from dust and rot
with roots entangled deep beneath the scene,
and petals bloom as hope's forget-me-not.
Her forte is to flourish in between
the intervals of metered choice and chance
to measure every season's happenstance.

If Outrance Were a Color: Yellow

A hotel room. You strip
to nothing. Lie on a double
bed drinking rompope
from the bottle; Mexican
eggnog: strong, sticky, sweet.
Marketed for its "excellent spunk."
Thick rum or whisky concoction with
eggs, sugar, and almond sidenotes, comes
in shades of yellow from buttercream
to screaming sunshine. The room bathed in
yellow. I want to retch from too much
alcohol and the bathroom stench.
You want sex. I say something--
I only know this because I always said
something--and you hit me. Then
you took me by the hair, covered
your cock in rompope, said: suck it.

When your hair is held by a naked
man you love, who does not love you,
in a foreign country you do
what you can. I went far away
in my head. Nothing
you said could touch me.
You called me
back to Mexico. To the yellow.
I noticed you were dressed.

Get up, you said. We're going
dancing. I didn't want to go.
If you don't, I'll leave you here.

Mathematician Matt Tweed writes
that atoms are comprised of almost
completely empty space. To grasp
the vast nothingness, he asks
the reader to imagine a cat
twirling a bumblebee
on the end of a half-mile long string:
that's how much emptiness there is
between the nucleus and the electron.

Now, more nothingness
than that
between you and I.

Overdue

I believed you could pull silver from the sky. I believed words mean. I understood eyes.

Now, my arm wags off my shoulder thinking I know the answer. Teacher never chooses me. I wait at the window for mommy to return. She never arrives.

My soul stirs to yours. Mind anticipates voice. When I wake with my body curled around possible-yous, morning’s thought is your face. Your hands haunt me.

I carry the stillborn moon. Its unremitting orbit. Its relentless dark side. I mourn the birth that never comes. The nestling of bodies I yearn to know. I bend double under the weight of our debris.

I carry you way past term.

She Wasn't One to Give Up

The multi-grain bun halved, then filled
with ground round, crumbled
blue cheese,tangy
red tomato, oozing
barbecue sauce and hot mustard
appealed to him. She

drip
drip
dripped

upon the small wood table
where they sat
with the newness of coming
to know one another. He halved
the table, just as her arm
trailed through the drops,
giddy laughter spilling
from her lips, honey
eyes vaulting the table.

She loved, she said, a man
who knew how to touch.
He planned to give up meat
for Lent. But not her.

Duck soup, baseball, ducking out, and the cost of being lame

Every so many feet, you collect
a bill: ten or twenty web feet
totals hundreds over time.

Every so many pitches, you pay
with a bruise: five or ten stitches
if you don’t watch the ball.

Every so many meals, you collect
your things: slip out unnoticed
before the waiter brings the bill.

Every so many foibles, you pay
with shame: even isolation
for all the ways you are odd.

Every so many mallards, you collect
a hen: six or eight eggs
produce half that number chicks.

Every so many chicks, you lose
your soul.

Poem-a-day disclaimer

These first-draft poems are a daily exercise as part of a February post-a-poem-each-day. The subject or title is given by someone else and the poem must be written and posted the same day.

Backyard Bundt Cake

Find a good tree with a bald patch
at the base of the trunk. It is perfect
if erosion has worn away a bit of root
to form a puddle from yesterday’s rain.
Find an old Folgers can (rusty will do)
and a thick stick to stir the goo
you will make from two handfuls of dirt,
a bunch of dry leaves crackled into bits,
and (don’t balk now) a bit of dog doo
from over by the back fence. If the tree
is cedar, gather a handful of tiny cones,
stir them in whole. If it’s fir,
you only need one. Crush it
underfoot so the scales slide free.
Mix them in your muck with a little green
grass and dandelion wishes. Stir
vigorously. Your arm won’t get so tired
if you sing, “Delta Dawn, what’s that flower
you have on? Could it be a faded rose
from days gone by?” Make a circle
of small pebbles on a hot sidewalk.
Spread the batter inside the round rocks.
Bake till crusty brown.