Guy

Two minutes past twilight
he re-returns from the
outer reaches of the
upper peninsula
of the windward shore
of the lower river valley
of the repositioned
Southwest New Hebrides.
He collapses deliciously
with a half smile
showing no teeth,
spiky hair,
a new tattoo,
and wrinkled pajama bottoms
stuffed deep into a
navy-colored knapsack.
“Hey,” he invites, and,
with no effort on my part,
he ends up with
a beer in one hand
and in the other
stories from his latest
venture to Guatemala.
“The girls there are something else.”
Entirely.
In totality.
Most absolutely.

Nearish dawn,
as he sips on his twelfth
and finishes his description
of a late winter sunset
over the Cuchumatanes,
he looks at me,
disconcertingly,
in the eyes.
“It’s a big world you don’t know little girl.
A big big world.”
Like I was raising wolves
out of my houseboat
and my only
romantic encounters
were sewing shadows
onto the soles of
sarcastic young sirs.
“Yeah,” I concede.

He laughs quietly
like it is just
a particular way
he has of breathing.
I can see his teeth briefly
and the breath escapes.
I wander a bit more
into my misgivings.
He stretches luxuriously
and resumes his latest tale.
I close my eyes and listen
as Saint Anthony
shivers slightly.

Ghosties

On TV, Janet Leigh
prepares for her shower
as I prepare Jack
for his personality.
I poise with knife—
I’m ready for my psychotic
break Mr. Hitchcock.
Music cues, you call.
It seems Norman and I
aren’t the only ones
up for carving.
“You coming?” you say
as though embossed
stationary had been involved.
A couple of eons and two seconds ago,
my mother asks what I’d like.
“Can I have star eyes?” I challenge.
“Do you want both eyes to be stars?”
my mother replies uneasily spooked.
You’re singing over the phone.
“Seems someone got an early start.”
Two minutes later,
Amy lobotomizes
as I size up the patient.
“He seems a smug gourd.”
Haneen, with Palestinian patience,
prepares pumpkin seeds.
Mom goes for sharpie
while I choose to freehand.
Norman just overreacts.
“You can meet us there.”
“I don’t have a costume.”
Lies and damnation.
My knife slips
and Jack looses a tooth.
“What about the nose?”
“A triangle.”
Back to basics,
I blew my shapely skills on the stars.
“Regular or upside down triangle?”
My mom’s the coolest.
Poor Norman.
“If I’m not there yet,
just introduce yourself.”
I don’t need a haunted house
with the apprehension of
that first un-rung doorbell before me.
“Whatever you want,”
Amy says and pops a beer.
Her goopy work is done.
“Fine. Square. Nose.”
Were you ever misunderstood, Mr. Hitchcock?
“I’ll just say I’m Margaret’s friend.”
No rejoinder.
The seeds are all they should be:
warm, crunchy, and way too salty.
Pass the Almond Joy.
“Two teeth on top and one tooth on bottom.”
I’m sick on dulce de leche
and X-Files marathon.
You call again.
“I’m running late.”
Vera Miles lets her rip.
Star-eyed and smiling,
clean-cut and satisfied,
snaggle-toothed and trepidant.
Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“Trick or treat.”

Type A Love

I haven’t forgotten about you,
I’ve just pushed you aside
onto list three, item four
before flossing
but after buy bread.
So you see, you’re not neglected
just prioritized
in a life carefully boxed
on well-dusted shelves.
So, clearly, there’s no need
for your emotions to get messy.

Re-what-again?

I sniff a little at the implications:
Two days journey back
to those saturated hours of self
for a group photo?
Surely this is more of a looking glass affair
than a panoramic view.
Sure, the beauty of erosion,
the healing hot springs,
the masterful upheaval of tectonics,
but is that the reason I’ve gathered me here today?
I’m hunting jabberwocky.
Open your eyes a little wider,
I want to see how I look there.
Oh, I know all about me.
The selfish minutes of mourning weren’t wasted.
From the shit I grew flowers
and the dead fish, wheat.
But can you see that?
Can you see the iron core,
can you see the antenna straight to God,
can you see the army, thus far unimpressed by you?
Am I just half the vaudeville act, now,
or am I the woman’s arm you
are compelled to keep brushing?
I connect the dots,
often forgetting the re,
and am no less windswept for it,
no less featured in the picture,
no less serious, no less crazy,
no less, no more,
than I need to be.
No jabberwockies here,
just fish,
soon to be a bumper crop.

Some St. Patrick

I twist in the hangover
of my most recent imprisonment—
a time spent telling stories
to no one but me—
and critically observing
the finest details of fauna:
this is you, this is me,
this is us under the sky.
I walk the oft-named wilds
and watch my muscles
move beneath my skin
as I determinedly preach devotion—
the way and the world it would be.
This is the thing,
this is the where,
this is me
—some St. Patrick flailing at the pagans,
a path uneasily taken.
The fool’s sacrifices are
bravely made in stubbornness
(but I wanted to have
meaningful relationships
with those snakes!);
still, at some point,
even a lost disciple must realize
the Druids are too absorbed
by their stony calendars
to find sustenance in the sun.
This is the light,
this is the dark,
this is where they both reside.
My hands are bloody,
my feet are scarred,
and in the weeds:
me,
God,
the infinite,
—and, if I’m lucky—
grace.