Bloodroot

After her surgery he became more involved
with the outdoors. Started volunteering
for his son's boy scout troop. Quit smoking
and decided to hike the Appalachian Trail

where it begins in Georgia. In the bedroom
she dreams of bloodroot. Paints
her chest with its red juice to numb,
to get ready for war, to bloom
along the path of the Cherokee

National Forest. 75 miles to carry
34 years on his back. This would take
late nights after work, weekends
to buy the proper equipment
to survive the elements

of breast cancer: she awoke
on the table with a scar down
her right side, a ridge without
a mountain top, her sex carved

into a wooden sign, a trail marker
to help him find his way.

Phone Call To An Ex
 
If it sounds like I'm calling you
from a stairwell, it's because
 
I'm always looking for an escape
route. The bottoms of my shoes
 
are an important part. Rubber
souls. And chewing
 
gum for those awkward moments
showing too much cleavage, I mean
 
I'm terrible at leaving messages
on these things. Stair steps
 
remind me to tie my shoes later.
I forgot, that's not your job
 
anymore. Anyway, what I meant
to say was is if it sounds like
 
I'm calling you from a stairwell,
it's because.

I Leave This At Your Ear For When You Wake

A pair of scissors and a tiny, stuffed
whale shark to keep in your aquarium
dreams to filter those insignificant
bars along the side of the bed that press
against your head always in the name of
safety, to keep you from falling over
 
the edge. I say insignificant as in
the way the sound of a train at night
curls like a cat on top of my feet, not
letting me out from under the blanket
traveling places only my shadow
can fit into, the corners of the room
with its wide mouth and white belly, swimming
 
between your small hands. My child don't let go.
Each day is a kite on a string and these
scissors are only meant for cutting hair
away from eyes. And umbilical cords.
 
 *Title taken from the first line of W.S. Graham's poem, "I Leave This At Your Ear"

Disassembling

Rain is falling but the men
keep working. They are
digging a hole in the earth,
laying foundation, red mud
blooming at their knees.
One man is climbing up a steel
frame full of holes. I worry
that he'll slip

through the windshield,
pieces of his heart wrapped
in paper napkins on the floor.
The steering wheel doesn't believe
I have control. I always keep
the doors locked, rain can't
get inside. Swollen droplets
clinging to telephone wires.