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Willingly

If  the  last sound I hear  is a whir of sparrows, an  all-at-once ascent  from the apple
tree, air  pulsing  above  the branches, it would be a kind of permission. Like the luff
of a sheet flung above the  bed, again and again. That great  whoosh  of air takes  me
far  out on the water, the  sail breathing  in and out. Coastline  fading  like memory.

immense heaven
feeling the tug
of other galaxies

Light  sifts  through  the blinds tonight the way  my  mother  sifted  cake  flour  into  a
blue  porcelain bowl.  A dusting  of  twilight  now  on the  chair,  across  the  vanity. In
her  last  days  my  mother  swore  she  saw  wings  on  the  wall  of her  hospice  room.
First,  it was  a large  bird. Later,  an airplane. Look,  she  would  say,  hoisting  herself
up on her elbows, can’t you see the wings there on the wall? Not  a  shadow  of wings,
but the  wings themselves. She  was insistent. It’s just the  light  playing  tricks, Mom.
What else could I say?

But I’ll admit that sometimes I can see the moon fall across the water, even though
I  live  inland  from  the  shore.  I  hear  its  swash,  the   riffle  of  beach  pebbles.  A
commotion of gulls.

glass lake
trailing my fingers
through the clouds

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Letting the Kneeler Down

Forgive me the absence of all feeling. My heart a pink spike.
I am a disposable animal, in exile from heaven. A bitter thing.
You must see I am attached to earth’s delights—dark red petals,
sap frothing and rising. Distant father, are you stirred also?
I see beauty on either side of heaven: here, a yellow bird;
there, pleated wings, white fire.

Unreachable father, could you possibly exist? Lies have passed
between us like tiny aphids on the trailing rose. And silence.
If I say I love you, will you lift the weight of solitude? I speak
to you on my knees, my hands an empty clump of longing.

                             after evening rain
                             dark birds fold their wings

—cento sourced from the eight “Matins” poems from The Wild Iris by Louise Glück

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In the Wound of Night

                —after Constantin Brâncuşi’s sculpture, Sleeping Muse

I envy her perfection. More than beauty, her tranquility,
like a level’s bubble, centered, even in this busy, brightly lit
gallery. A dream blooms inside the elegant head, at rest
on a pedestal. Cast in white marble, an ageless patina smooths
brow and cheek. The air around her shapes itself into clean,
linear features—an abstraction of woman, one you might know
at midnight; an evocation in the morning.

moon flower—
the night garden
fragrant with light

Tonight, in my ink dark bedroom, I imagine her crescent cheek
cradled on the pillow next to mine. Her mouth is inscrutable.
The marble softens at the Cupid’s bow, allowing only the slightest
parting of her lips. I taste her cool breath as she descends into the deep
end of sleep; into a pool of lassitude.

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. Her dreams must be
sweet, and so magically elsewhere. Lapis skies swirl with gold stars.
Exotic forests with sated tigers. I, too, close my eyes but my dreams
tousle out in the hall of my childhood home where people move
through dim rooms. There, no one has ever died. Everything
and nothing changed.

the ceiling fan’s
rhythmic pulse—
missyou missyou missyou

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Chimera

Trick of the light, I think, when the seal’s head crests in the water
of this small cove where I’m swimming. A distance of ten strokes.
Less. We keep that distance a long minute―me treading water, riveted.
The seal dips, rises, turns a dark eye toward me. Curious, but not enough
to come closer. On impulse I swim out to where he last dove. Just
sunlight there, spangling the water.

sand mandala. . .
the journey inward
until the wind

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The Wild Wood

Mid-winter darkness is already falling as I trek through a foot of new snow,
searching for my dog, Lumi. Venturing off-trail through the woods, I hold out
my lantern, the only source of light this moonless night. The park ranger says,
“Coyotes probably got her.” I’d rather imagine that she has entered an enchanted
kingdom where a rabbit, seeing that she is lost, snuggles her in its burrow
or that she has found shelter in the bole of a tree.

hobo spider
i too
spin my web

This morning, a call from a hiker who spotted a dog matching Lumi’s missing dog
picture. I drive to the edge of the park, miles from where I lost her three days ago. Atop a steep hill that arches down to the river, I call her, long and loud, the way
my mother would sing my name when the street lights came on. A form takes shape
at the bottom of the hill―a snow swirl or my small, white dog? Rib-thin, mud-slushed,
exhausted, she comes limping toward me. I scoop her up, cradle her under my jacket
and together we bow to the benevolent mysteries that move through the forest.

second bloom
frost flowers
glaze the field

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Content Warning: sexual violence

                                    Trout Fishing

She sits across from him at the small coffee shop,
gazes out the window speckled with rain.
She can see their reflections—the sudden,
sharp fish hook of her jaw, his long fingers
curled around the saucer of coffee between them—
so many things that can snare a person.

He looks at her, notices the soft seams of her sweater,
how the wide neck leaves ample room for her to maneuver,
snug and free as the trout that slipped away from his fine hook
last summer at Watauga Lake. The sudden glint of steel
off sunlight, the slight jerk of his hand on the rod in anticipation.
He could feel the hook claw harmless at the scales even then.

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Content Warning: sexual violence

                 Snippets—I Can’t

“Sometimes I can’t tell if I like a girl
as a friend or as girlfriend material.”

Snippets of a conversation overheard
in passing while boarding the subway.

Sometimes I can’t tell whether
I speak aloud or in my paper-thin head.

It does not help that things
                echo here in the chambers of Manhattan.

I can’t tell if I can hear
                 correctly, if I can see the faces correctly.

Sometimes I think I see
myself. Material becomes immaterial

like a chain of paper angels, wings
                 severed with each gentle snip of the doors.

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Content Warning: sexual violence

               Palm Up, Fingers Curled (Or, This is How it Happened)

I sit on my grandparent’s back porch,
in a chair at their glass table.

Grandpa is on my left;
my father across from him,
to the right of me at the head of the table.

Grandpa is describing the recent
                                                               abduction of a young woman.

It had been in the news a few days before.

My father had yet to hear the story—
it wasn’t just an abduction, we learned;

two men had kidnapped, raped, mutilated,
                                                                      then murdered the woman.
Grandfather goes into specifics,
                                                describing how the men had tied her to the bedpost
and taken turns.

The young woman was young,
a girl really, just sixteen years old.

Grandpa makes eye contact with me—
then with his son
                                  as he relays the most gruesome details.

At other times during the telling,
he looks down and speaks to his
reflection in the dusty glass of the table.

His face, at those moments, has a look of incredulity,
as if even he is shocked to hear the story he is voicing.

My father breathes the word “Jesus”
at various intervals. He glances at me,
                                                              on occasion.

The things he must be imagining—
worst-case scenarios involving me
                                                            in her place.

When I first sat down
I had not known what they were discussing.

It was summer, early July.

Our entire family was over
for our annual cookout.

I had expected the conversation to be light, airy,
like biting into a slice of watermelon.

                               Instead, I sit down to hear him say
one of the men had cut off the young woman’s left breast.

And I don’t just mean her nipple, he said.
                                                          Her entire breast.

He holds his hand out, palm up with his fingers curled,
as if that very breast was perched there in his hand.

                 The air around us grows oppressive.

I do not want to stay—to listen—
but I also don’t want to stand
                                                and leave so soon after having
                          just sat down.

So I stay. I listen.

Until my grandfather
                                    holds out that hand,

his palm a sign of wealth—
                 all the years he has lived
                                                         weaving a tangled tapestry
                                                                                  across his soft, tan skin;

the shape his palm makes, as if he were offering
                 his beating heart,

                                     or if his other hand joins in,
                                                                   as if he were begging for mercy—
but it is just the one hand,
               golden band reflecting the sun’s gaze.
                                                                                I look away.

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Content Warning: sexual harrassment

               How Could This Have Happened?

“What’s your name?”

                                        “Claire.”
“Claire,” he repeats.

My name always sounded flat to me,
but when he says it, he lingers
on the vowel, drawing
                                    out the “air.”

It’s eerie, this feeling.

We stand in the middle of the double
entrance to the Knoxville Public Library;
two people, one coming—

                                                               one going.

“Where are you from, Claire?”

                                “It’s—” I pause, unsure
how to evade the question.
                                “It’s a ways away from here.
                               You probably don’t know the place.”

“I know a lot of places.”

He smiles, sticks his hands
in his pockets.

The library receptionist is watching us
                                                    through the glass door.

I can’t stop glancing at her.

“How far away is it?”

My eyes are pulled back to his face.

                                       “Oh, about an hour and a half,” I say,
                                       sure the information is useless.

There are a lot of places an hour
and a half away from where we stand.

I inch closer to the second set of doors,
                                         which lead outside.

“We’re friends, right?” he asks.

I nod, my gaze on the door,
               hands clenched to hide the tremble.

                                         I force my fists to unravel.
                                        “Sure. We’re friends, I guess.”

I look at him.
He smiles again.

His teeth are thin and yellow, like a rat’s.
They look brittle, as if they could fall out.

“I have a lot of friends who are girls.
I met them the same way I met you
                                                          just now.
You should come over sometime—

to my place, meet them. We can all
be friends
                   and have a good time, together.”

I don’t respond.

I put my hand on the outer door,
                                                  angle my body away from him.

The receptionist is standing now, watching.

The man on display with me
does not appear to notice our viewers.

He moves closer.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks.

His voice is low. He is bent slightly at the waist,
leaning his shoulders and face closer.

“Do you want to go with me to meet them?”

                                        Them. His friends.

He lifts his hand as if to touch my face.

                                        “I’m sorry,”

I stammer.

                                      “I have to go.”

I push open the door,
feel the rush of air and noise—
                 loud as the blood roaring in my ears.

I look back to see him shake his head, turn away.

I nearly trip down the concrete steps.
                      At my car, the books—
                                 thrown in the passenger seat.
                                       I climb in and lock the doors.
                                                Grip the steering wheel—
                                                               not so hard.
                                                                                       Breathe.

*                                               *                                                  *   

I’m not unnerved by what he said,
                but by how easy
                            he made it seem.

I could have left with him—
                                                  disappeared—
a simple thing, really.

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