thanksgiving reminds me of Lucile. when we arrived she would always be in the kitchen, working a pie crust or checking the turkey. her hands covered in flour or some other ingredient, she’d be careful to wipe them in her apron before giving you a hug.

we move a little farther from her as it moves a little closer to us. the familiar clock of nothing unexpected. everyone bothered by death they make a list. leftovers become more valuable and are fought over. everyone bothered by death. my father next to my mother can't sit still. my mother describes his mother. fetal position, blood-soaked tile, night gown lifted up, toilet full. 

fig tree

some fallen, others picked

washed and counted with
the rest of our blessings

greeting card

I feel ashamed to admit

sometimes I see no point at all.
Our lives may in fact be
profoundly pointless, sad,
small, indistinguishable
from any other, mine especially.

feeding

we eat our own bread

but stir someone else's soup -
hearts in our mouths
and ears to the door.

grown up before your eyes a city

a black and white photo of Ponce takes its place

elsewhere or if not trees my ficus will come with me.

some ties just will not tie (before we leave)

a paper rose twisted, smelling of lavender, coming undone.

the day I carried it home on my lap. atlanta

a self-portrait. your reds, yellows and browns

dream in turquoise hoping. everything will happen

public and private

the doors were open. were dusty.

you had already squeaked your way back through the mud.
with the others. with your instruments.

lamp-light from the street outside. a lone chair.
a cello. I closed my eyes.

whatever you heard, you heard from the proper distance -
(perhaps walking away) and it was me as I am. 

not everything else.

all women

maybe the last time you saw that friend was on a tuesday.

today is wednesday and I have sparkles on my hands from playing with children. clay too. we made coil bowls. one for the office.

you and you and you. wouldn't play well together. in a room. my head.

but good news. i've met a few brave ones lately. sorry, they were all women.