Radio.

I found out you were not listening,
That the sound of you listening
Was the sound of the paper moving
In the doorway.
The sound of the coffee being made
In the other room.
I found out a lot of things.
I found out you like cell phones,
Especially the ring tones-
Your favorite is a song by Lady Gaga,
Whom I haven’t familiarized myself with.
I don’t fancy any particular musician.
I used to play the cello.
I don’t fancy anything other than the wind
And the movement of the trees,
And the smell of bacon frying in the oven.
I never thought I’d piece together things
Things that were in-between.
The in-between that was nothing
And seemed to fight with me,
The wings of movement,
Of destiny and the simple promise of
Dictating.
I never thought I’d find you with the phonograph
Machine,
Your back whirring.
Or the sound of the harp playing
In someone else’s backyard,
Or the sound of your voice in the silence.
I don’t fancy I’m good enough.
Good enough for anything other than making
Breakfast for strangers,
And the lilacs blooming on the porch.

A Volume of Poetry.

Today I am a volume of poetry.
Tomorrow I am a piece of felt on the ground.
The wind moans in my ear.
No light I have found.
Some say I am going hungry.

They can see it in my eyes.
The darkness is round the moon;
It glimmers like a monsoon.
The distance I surmise.

Today I am a volume of poetry.
Tomorrow I am a map.
My cat comes to sit in my lap.
We throw papers on the floor.

Your mother comes to take the garbage out the door.
Whispered secrets, down on my luck,
My toe has been stuck in the mud and the muck.

Today I am a volume of poetry.
Tomorrow, I am your daughter.
I carry with me, the sound of a laughing otter.

The Wildflower Diaries.

Cows lull in the winter months.
The barn door bangs open, shut.
Open, shut. Winter winds move
And darkness comes weaving on a bicycle,
The stars blot my hands.

The sky is torn with bleeding fingers.
Scarecrows dot the fields like wildflowers.
Old hope fades.
My old lover says I am fading, fading.

There is death everywhere,
Even the flies feel it. They don’t like it.

Shush, says the wind. Shush.
Mandolins play on broken wings.
I am never home anymore.
I still pay the rent.
The garbage still gets taken out.
Someone tells me to hurry, hurry,
The night leaves me.

Sounds come broken through radios.
Dirt is scattered across freeways,
Highways I have never been. I am quiet.
In my mind. My husband screams at me from
The bathroom, saying we need more toothpaste.

The wind asks for quiet conversation. The clock is
A witch with no hands. I have not gotten over my own death;
My own light is quiet within me. I told you I am no one,
You never answered my voicemails.

We are done. The toast is done.

In the darkening Atmosphere.

The trees vanish after centuries,
glaciers form from huge cavernous rocks
in the ground. Snow in the Himalayas
are melting at a rapid rate;
herons settle in ponds of North America.

A change in the atmosphere, bodies littering
the ground in Hoa An, the landscape is quickly
changing.

Four years old, I was reading by firelight,
the shadow flickering on the walls. The wind
pushes me constantly, in a spiral,
I spin until I fall down.

The sun is dark. The streets are dark in winter
and summer, and a lone whale stakes itself on
the beach in California. As far as I know,
all the pelicans have gone home.

Visit To California.

The sea lions sun on a warm rock in San Francisco.
I am on Pier 41, leaning over the railing, taking pictures
of the animals, the water, and Alcatraz-the place
that is haunted by too much pigeon shit. It costs one hundred
dollars to take a ferry over. I decline the offer from
a man wearing a black hat.

I can hear the sea lions calling me from where I stand-they
sound like the whirring blade of a ceiling fan.

This is my 49th visit to California. I live in Toledo, Ohio,
twenty minutes away from the turnpike off of
Denny’s farm.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Denny’s horses;
I’m sure they are still there, their tails waving lazily
in the warm wind, their nostrils heaving in and out.
All I own is an ant farm.