One Crossing

Our house,
from across the creek,
looks like a fantasy,

one window lit
beneath a streak
of yellow sunset. I want

to live there,
inside my own life,
unnamable longing,

so quiet,
your hand in mine,
the leaves

now gold, a tunnel
home, the shape
of evening.


“Both Sides”

My friend manages
a restaurant,
one block

from where
Heather Heyer
was mowed down

by white hatred.
Men with semi automatics
march and chant,

wave their flags & Nazi
bats, confederates,
in riot gear

purchased online
from purveyors
of the finest

tactical garments.
She locks the door,
tells employees

to get in the back. Afraid
for their lives,
they emerge

in time to see
the panic,
a vehicle.  She knows

the woman killed
on Saturday,
both in their thirties,

elbows on a bar
in Charlottesville,
and now only one left

to tell the story
over a cigarette,
miles from home,

which is where
she finally has the oxygen
to tell me.

There is no question
about who brought
the terror down.

They feared for their lives,
they locked the door,
and no gray area now…

Tonight’s story is brought to you by the president.

House of Stone

Your plot wrought
with removal, you strip
down the holy
with soulless measures,
measured in cheap changes
less assessed
than the weight of gold,
objects objectified,
lawless laws,
you claim just cause
to shield your flaws.
Our bodies were built
for the erotic,
ripe fire of sorrow and light,
limbs carved by lust,
by loss, by life.

From these blessed depths,
your soul
erupted like a sting,
wrath of vacuous uncertainty,
you reduce this sacred
house of embers
to cold stone,
stone cold, alone
you build a house of sticks
to hold us in,
your broken words
and vicious gaze,
eyes, violent
in their vacant haze,
you are lazy,
for we have known love,
our bodies were made for it,
the way we move
or don’t move,
an act of freedom,
and do you feel
the passing brush of liberation
while you sit
with your broken mirrors
in a crowded room
and build your wall
from the granite
she gave you?

My children know the word grope,
make jokes
about men who use
their daughters
who are mothers.
We are mothers
and daughters,
and we expect more
from our fathers,
red tie nooses your head
to your heart like a balloon,
it might float away.
May your discord
be our kindling.

No bully words
will ever carve
like this heart.
Our house is made of marble,
lit by our lips
and our service,
all things beating now.
Wings rise like a tide,
you’ll be tattered
in the gale we make,
you shake,
somewhere deep inside
you watch the stone,
though you may not know it,
as freedom cracks
the limestone coffin.
This drumbeat comes from the earth,
your words, slippery fish,
will swim away like shadows,
away like cold hands
on an electric body,
with a passion
you tried to wet
like a wick,
now the bright candle
in a dark room,