Sick

Hold your children close, the wave is coming, they said.

So you run to the store, and you buy water and bread.

And you bring it home to fill the pantry that is filled with meals of self-satisfaction, but there are also side dishes of regret.

Then you update your Linked-In account: rapid tapping on a keyboard should stop the torrent of sea water that flows in the veins of the almost middle-aged with the Facebook- ready grin.

And the wave rushes in, stealing all of the food, the money and the body.

But you are still a soul in the middle of the tyranny.

Holy Spirit, help us to want you.

In the City by the Water

In the city by the water,

I ran on the beach in my prom dress.

I rode my bike on my neighborhood street.

I worked the drive-thru as a teen.

In the city by the water,

I sat by my Christmas tree.

I carried my homework to the bus.

I ran away from my home and came back again.

In the city by the water,

the water is rising

past the porch

and the room where the baby slept

and then to the roof.

In the city by the water,

deep breaths

reaching up

to the sky.

Tin Foil

You fear the light receding from the large house: lamp by lamp turned off

until the windows’ beady eyes turn to see you.

And then when the day spills onto the carpets and the doorways

and on the food on your table:

You are tin foil coiled and kicked.

It would take an artisan’s hands to smooth you out.

Your Place

Daughter of mine,

you were raised:

in the pasture

below city stars

in a mud hut

in front of the jury of my peers.

I know you were brought from above

to your corner of

gravity.

So no matter, stay

in your glass building, in your

bungalow tucked close:

This is not where you hang your

coat, anyway.

Unnamed But Named

She pushes out the skin, the flesh and the blood.

She has a dinner party smile, the smile that all the others

wish they had.

She is no belle of the house and no high-heeled, typing Athena.

She is carrying stones, one by one.

She wishes for a category or box

for her days, slipping away like

all the rest.

He, the thumbprint on heaven and earth, whispers to her:

“Beloved,” he says.

Shoes

Lord, the shoe soles are worn down from too many marches.

Shoes that hold these curves and secondary skin.

March, anyway, lady.

The best is just to wear down the leather. 

So there she goes, marching along: An elephant inside...

A Wish

Blue eyes, crystal clear flesh like her mother...

I don't know the spaces she will inhabit : stucco wooden utopias where she will host parties for 

the others. 

But I hope for an understanding of beyond primary colors.

A paintbrush poised to deny landscape and form: to dance across the sidewalk edge

to a city street full of deep brown.