Norma

Most nights I am complete—

the Oxford English Dictionary,

a Swiss Army knife,

Britannica, A to Z.

But not tonight, for I am tired and old

and empty of the comfort of your voice,

the reassurance of your brushing hand.

Mother of God

She awakens early

and frets that God

will be late again

turning on the sun.

So much to do.

Yesterday, He let the rain

run over long,

flooding Brazil 

and drowning the cat.

Now his goldfish are dying.

She stands at the door of His room,

watching His lumpish rise and fall,

and her heart and the earth quake.

She withdraws

to bake His bread

and prays He will survive

his teenage years.

Open House

Will I ever have to live in my van

(which I purchased with that distinct prospect in mind,

half hoping circumstance would put me to the test)?

Here, in the backseat, is my bedroom,

in the middle seat my library.

Deliveries can be made at the rear.

Come in my front door

and have some tea.

There are cup holders for both of us.

Sidewalk: For Sean

They’re razing the daycare center, 

and I watch a crane hoist high above the littered playground

a solid block of amber in which my granddaughter,

arms outstretched,  runs to me.

Discovery

Sex was always second prize—

irresistible, addictive, worth dying for,

yet messy, fumbling, a minefield through which

safe routes were never certain—

delicious, foul, precious,

an evolutionary romp.

First prize was discovery—

those minutes, hours and days

of incessant surprise,

when her life unfolded like origami

and her every entrance was Christmas morning.

Passages

Her fingers are sliding off the world:

combing through shades of friends and strands of unkempt hair;

clutching at images that undulate and flee;

caressing clouds and sunsets and songs that come in pixels;

clawing for words that bob like bottles and then wash out to sea.