Le Ciel
not the roof of my room, heights
of dreaming, where I go at night
to watch myself, keep track
of each errant heartbeat,
the breath that stops
goes again.
dome over me, I’d spend every penny
on feathers to wear: bright
green, purple, red
ones that light up in the sun.
I’d clothe myself in wings
like a cape that spreads open
to reveal my nakedness to you.
my wings in their music, I’d know
how to wake you
with a melody so clear
you’d never forget me. If I could
I’d reach that ceiling,
thin veil of breath where you and I
are, not so far from death.
Day 23
Life in the Posthumous Bookstore
to finish reading
books they left open
on bedside tables, next
to easy chairs, in their cars
before they veered
off the road into that ditch.
Boxes of books donated
by their aggrieved loved ones
end up here; read the bookplates
like an obit, a history
of reading. Boxes on boxes
waiting. Waiting for eventide.
the ropes of prestidigitation. Soon
(and after all, they’ve got time)
it becomes a mind matter,
slight turn of the wrist
over the page: presto, chango —
there’s that next chapter.
in the posthumous bookstore
where no spines are broken,
no corners bent, no notes scribbled
in the margins, where life after life
is lived from closing time to sunup.
Day 24
on every plate
in America they say
could feed all
the hungry kids
Everywhere.
around with my fork
feel the lurch
in my throat;
They taste bad,
I complain
these far away kids
in Everywhere.
be grateful.
Still I cannot
choke them down
reject complain.
off my plate
into the bin.
The TV on
in the next room
A child
with flies on his eyes
looks at my plate
empty as his own belly.
I won’t get dessert.
I didn’t clean my plate.
Day 25
says, J’ai passé une nuit blanche
à penser. J’ai envie d’amour.
warms my hand with his, breathes
into my neck before I can pull away,
before I can say he’s made a mistake.
to recall some French phrase, a way
to say I am not the woman he thinks,
not the lover who kept him up all night.
and for a long moment I am
that woman, the one who goes
with this man, the woman who loves
wherever he will take her. I am steady
and sensible. But his cologne, his fingers
on my arm; the way his hair falls.
say I am here to meet a friend who’s late.
What I do instead is bring the flower
to my lips. Moi aussi. Moi aussi.
Day 26
when you are in the house. A soft sound
no one hears but me. I miss the way
your chest rises to meet my hand
when we are sleeping together
in this warm nest we’ve made.
welcomed like a storm after a too hot day
has burnt us to exhausted. Awaken
early, leave like a thief, and it comes to me —
a silence only I would notice. Three
decades of breaths haunting me, I know
when your breath has left me alone.
For now, let me celebrate their return
with evening. Let me kiss you and feel them
on my lips, let me wrap myself in them,
bathe in the tide of them. Let me laugh
with the day’s stories you breathe
as we dine on the love we’ve made. Finally,
as day dies off and night comes,
I celebrate again the magic silence
of your breathing beside me in the dark.
Day 27
of killers, rapists, terrorists,
missing loved ones, portraits
in swirled black on white.
Miniatures that will not make it
to the walls of a gallery, to a photo
album treasured by family, friends.
They say no two are alike,
so I think I should look carefully
at my twin daughters’ fingers
to try out the theory. If they are true
identicals, would their fingerprints be so?
Each whorl should be, each ridge
should be — the same. Their DNA is.
So what of the cut one got chopping
carrots for stew? What of the burn
from touching that hot pan? What if
no accidents befell their twin fingertips?
Would these portraits be the same, these prints
a match, exact? I ask you: where’s the proof?
Day 28
and the soot cleared the air
and the firefighters all went home,
we sift through the remains
of our dream and find one perfect diamond.
There, by what was our bed, it shines.
I sit on my grandmother’s wedding chest,
charred but still whole, hold the gem
in my palm, and wonder how it survived.
Was it hardness, the cut, or some hidden magic
of angels? I try to recall
what piece of jewelry I may have left
on the night table. No matter. Whatever
else was lost, I have this to start over,
to set in a ring that will sparkle, remind
me that even heartache can burn away
heartache. If I turn my wrist this way and that,
I will see the fire that burned, the fire
that lit the way to something more beautiful
than a house, a bed, or even a diamond.
Day 29
Painful Art
not a soft hair brush dipped
in pigment, a truth, you offer
yourself as canvas.
scraped impressions
stories into their skins
with rocks dipped in char.
A small heart on the wrist,
a bee and crown
decorating the shoulder.
tears welling up,
every muscle on edge
as the artist pains you into art.
Day 30
up in a chamber of my heart.
My doctor puzzles
over this, admits
there is a shadow there,
says firmly no man enters
a woman’s actual heart.
We need further tests.
you’ve been the muscle,
the strum of each beat for years.
Look closely I urge.
There, in the atrium. Him.
in the film or in my physiology,
there you are as real as you holding me
as my heart beats its way
to the stars each night, real as me
in this sterile office,
my doctor rejecting miracles.
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