I was fifteen. When this man last visited me,
all the pretty rivers in town were tannin-stained
from a certain oak-and-chestnut mess. We walked
carefully through glass galleries and a little bakery
that sold a single gold-dipped strawberry. I was the girl
whose hands gave up chewing through a dahlia long ago.
Even he has crawled too far across soil to turn back now.
And truth be told, so have I. I am like a man who prefers
the taste of his own tongue instead of the lips of summer.
My shadow and the shadow of sunflowers are the same.
Sea Church
Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.
I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.
Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas
for this waterprayer
rising like a host
of paper lanterns
in the inky evening.
Let them hang
in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations—
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.
Mr. Cass and the Crustaceans
Whales the color of milk have washed ashore
in Germany, their stomachs clogged full
of plastic and car parts. Imagine the splendor
of a creature as big as half a football field—
the magnificence of the largest brain
of any animal—modern or extinct. I have
been trying to locate my fourth grade
science teacher for years. Mr. Cass, who
gave us each a crawfish he found just past
the suburbs of Phoenix, before strip malls
licked every good desert with a cold blast
of Freon and glass. Mr. Cass who played
soccer with us at recess, who let me check
on my wily, snappy crawfish in the plastic
blue pool before class started so I could place
my face to the surface of the water and see
if it still skittered alive. I hate to admit
how much this meant to me, the only brown girl
in the classroom. How I wish I could tell Mr. Cass
how I’ve never stopped checking the waters—
the ponds, the lakes, the sea. And I worry
that I’ve yet to see a sperm whale, except when
they beach themselves in coves. How many songs
must we hear from the sun-bleached bones
of a seabird or whale? If there were anyone on earth
who would know this, Mr. Cass, it’s you—how even
bottle caps found inside a baby albatross corpse
can make a tiny ribcage whistle when the ocean wind
blows through it just right—I know wherever you are,
you’d weep if you heard this sad music. I think
how you first taught us kids how to listen to water,
and I’m grateful for each story in its song.
Penguin Valentine
Praise the patience of a papa penguin.
I don’t envy those dark, starlit nights
with only the occasional blush-green
current of auroras across his claws.
See how sweetly he holds the egg close
in his brood pouch? And I am certain
his fierce tenderness would scare
even a crabeater seal five times his size.
What exactly does the papa penguin register
in a nighttime that lasts two whole months?
During those days of no sun, does he
remember the particular bend
of his mate’s neck, that hint of yellow
near her ears? Or does he hunger for a slip
of hooked squid, worry the grand gulp of air
he must take, the concentration needed
to slow down his own heart? Praise
the faithfulness, the resolve, the lanceolate
feathers shaped like tiny spears, perfect
to
