Tree Leaf

The house is rumpled

but cinnamon stews on the stove, and

things might be on the verge of cracking             wide                         open

Pardon me, please

if I begin to gush, because the flood is coming

and everyone should get ready, should

Cover up because the after-chill will settle

deeper this time, more encrusted than

before, when a tree leaf could make                         me                         sparkle. 

Blue like veins

I wish I lived

in a climate where I could look out the window

and write about orange blossoms.

But I get ashy snow,

ashy bird dung that’s been staring me down

for months;

grunge on stop signs

when I drive to work,

no bare feet

tickled by white sand and bright blue waters.

Although I can work with this color-

blue-

I’ve got the kind of blue like veins through

white skin-

the kind of blue that resists orange

though I don’t want it to.

I bring the dog in from a frostbitten walk,

with wet ankles and snow scrapes.

we are hit by the furnace heat,             bright.

Bread

You don’t know God yet, child

or maybe you do-

maybe more than I.

When you dream and your subconscious flutters

you contain the great yawn

of morning.

You contain moments that haven’t had the chance

to be ruined by thoughts:

the smell of toast as the mist evaporates,

as neighbors blink awake

you shift with life to say thank you

for the bread we eat together.

Grapes

I sound terrible, I

know

but after the fight

you trim grapes from the arbor,

from the vines that grace the dining room windows.

Purple skins split easily and stain our fingers.

The soft thunk

into a bucket

is enough for us to grow quiet

and start listening.

The Sun God Slips Away

In the afternoon I watch you gather the wet cloths

of the morning’s potential

and begin to wring them dry.

By nightfall the cloths become

dried up bits of paper,

husks that scatter in the wind.

The problem with you, sun god,

I whisper as I crawl beneath twisted sheets,

is the way you disappear,

take everything with you

and leave me to wrestle with the cold night. 

You Hold

We sit on your floor,

the carpet dappled with cigarette burns,

both of us as transparent

as your shirt from too much wear.

We drink warm Sunny D,

peel melted kit-kats from their slippery wrappers.

I could live on this meal or less.

You hold possibility

like a shiny glass bauble

my eyes transfixed by the oily glow. 

Lemon

As you speak the light washes
across your face,

diffuses at your shoulders

and your hands, I’m sure,

are reaching toward me. 

But I start to shrink;

I have shoes that are heavy

and the tinge of acid

from the lemon in my mouth

from the glazed blue bowl

It shimmers, too.