Wild Bloom

be like raindrops
by dry earth,
as wild flower
and be
by the scent of it,
the lush of it,
fall back
into fields
of the decadent
that swallows
our thoughts and the time
in this high untamed
at summertime’s end,
every last petal
of riotous blue
to the black earth
that beckons
all back
to the soil
your barefooted


Today I peeled back
all manner of things:
white and wind-swelled
morning curtains for
the flood of copper sunlight
and also the speckled
sheath of one ripe banana.
I exposed the body inside
of a fresh tamale’s damp
blond husk, still warm
from the brick oven and
the soft hands of Francesca.
All day alone in the almost
rain, I peeled off my voice
and tossed it into the bin
with the banana shell
and the corn wrappers
(now there were three),
where they lay all tangled
into the flesh of each other,
a silent yellow homage
to the necessity of


And as a life is saved
by the one who kneels

with the wounded man
on the side of the road,

so may we find rescue
in the generosity of night

music round a campfire ring
as a half moon braids

through white stars
until the dawn. What

subtle salvations may bloom
inside a morning conversation

between a mother and a
daughter and also in

the sweet and bitter cups
of coffee that they

hold. Hummingbirds
to nectar, we are drawn

to an honest voice, to the
soft body of another

curling wordlessly into
our own, to the weighty

questions of a child, and like
the clouds that move

between the heat of bare skin
and the wild summer sun,

we become these small
and nameless tendernesses,

reminding each other
of what we are capable of

in all our broken humanness
with our ears, our open

hands, our letters
of love.