over your shoulder.
You spooned cold yellow squares
into the cast iron pan.
Pale yellow turned to gold,
the edges crisped and browned.
You carefully lifted the squares
onto each white plastic plate.
Slice the butter you said
and handed me the knife.
I put two cool cubes
on fried corn meal squares
and watched them melt, pool
and swim toward the edges.
You removed Aunt Jemima’s cap
and lifted her glass body.
We sat on the floor
watching black and white cartoons.
You whispered, Don’t tell Mommy
I fried mush for breakfast.
I chewed that sticky secret,
so tender, crisp, and rich.
Vacant Blue
I race through florescent terminals
lugging my load. I fly
above green squares of wheat
through vacant blue, wondering how
I, for fifty years unblessed,
Can conjure love to ease
you into rest? As neon
spikes and dips monitor arrhythmic
beats and fitful, shallow breaths,
you lie oblivious this night.
I place my hand on
yours. It is still warm.
I study your high cheekbones,
your closed eyes, your hair,
too short, your double chin.
Our breath mingles. A second
hand marks time as red
flashing spikes and dips smooth
into two straight lines, traveling
left to right ad infinitum.
I say...though I walk
through the valley of shadow . . . .
I will fear no evil,
Thou art with me...I
brush your forehead. My fingertips
trace your cheek. The only
word I know is grace
to name this thing that
fills love’s empty place.
Advent
The trees are empty, daylight wanes.
December air hangs cold and blue.
I stand on fallow, frozen ground,
and dream fresh dreams of Earth made new.
In my dreams, I’m always warm,
and lilac petals fall like snow.
I walk a gentle path with friends
I’d lost or grieved for long ago.
In my dreams, it’s always light—
unsullied brightness never ends.
No evening shadows bring a chill;
no silent, somber dusk descends.
In my dreams, I wear no scars.
Old injuries have left no trace.
Like an oak, I stand up straight,
and as a willow, bend with grace.
But on this broken afternoon
in winter’s unforgiving cold,
promises are overdue,
and unborn dreams too great to hold.
A Matter of Participles
variations on a line by Joslyn Green
Loving
matters
more
than
being
(loved,
loved,
loving)
Being
matters
less than
more. . .
more
loved
than
loving
Matters
being
equal
being
more
matters
(loved,
loving)
than. . .
more than
being
Loving
more
Love
matters,
matters
than.
