the ugly earring

Be like a bear in the forest of yourself.
Even sleeping you are powerful in your breath.
Every hair has life
and standing, as you do, swaying
from one foot to the other
all the forest stands with you.
Each minute sound, one after another,
is distinct in your ear. Here
in the blur of mixed sensations, you can
feel the crisp outline of being, particulate.
Great as you are, huge as you are and
growling like the deepest drum,
the continual vibration that makes music
what it is,
not some light stone skipped on the surface of things,
you travel below
sounding the depths where only the dauntless go.
Be like the bear and
do not forget
how you rounded your
massive shape over the just ripened
berry which burst
in your mouth that moment
how you rolled in
the wet grass, cool and silvery, mingling
with your sensate skin,
how you shut
your eyes and swam far and farther
still, starlight
shaping itself to your body,
starship rocking the grand, slow waves
under the white trees, in the
snowy night.

found at fern and moss

the girls have a new game they play outside -
one lies down on the ground, face up, eyes closed,
dead grass knotted in her hair.
one sister comes to the rescue,
placing the dead sister in the little red wagon
and carting her to the gazebo, which is really the hospital.
The sister pulling the red wagon is really a doctor
who saves the other sister
with concoctions of dead leaves, berries, and dirt,
which they call medicine.

the father leaves the door open while he works,
listening as the sisters play.

meanwhile, the contractions become
more intense, and the mother

makes a batch of homemade granola
for the nest.

… only a few more weeks,
dearest friends.

illustration from the dead bird by margaret wise brown

image – not sure of the origin – found at the lovely arielawonders
poem: a ring of changes by denise levertov

anniversary poem

later, you would shave your head. and i would trim the hair
on the nape of your neck. this notion of time, a passing year,
another we’ve made together.
you ask me – what sex is the baby.
but i don’t answer. instead, i tell you
it is okay for you to remarry when i die.
i see it in my face more than yours.
these gray roots and the lines around my mouth.
- she will have your eyes.

i woke up last night, and the porch light was on.
i swear i heard rain. a ghost reached for you.
and then i found you -
asleep between two daughters,
wearing an old sweater
i bought you years ago.

“Francisca’s eggs are small, creamy and the yolk is yellowish orange while Bonita’s yolk’s are the color of persimons. I have not yet tasted Bonita’s eggs.  Astrid won’t share those.  She’s addicted to eggs.”

text: beatrice valenzuela’s pretty post eggs
photo: Manuel Carrillo – Girl with Chicken

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.

i hold your hand,
first born.

this is how you know
i’ve memorized
the length of your fingers. and when
you’re biting your nails again.

she held my hand, too,
bending my fingers upward
at the knuckles.
Perhaps, she thought,
i would be a dancer
instead of the sparrow
that, one day, would flee
her nest.

image: here

joan didion and daughter quintana
and a hunt for honey:
honey bear by dixie wilson

Sweetheart
when you break thru
you’ll find
a poet here
not quite what one would choose.

I won’t promise
you’ll never go hungry
or that you won’t be sad
on this gutted
breaking
globe

but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever

poem: song for baby-o, unborn by diane di prima
image found here