Prayers in Boxes (an unfinished poem)

This poem is unfinished.  It's a recent piece and will likely be revised many times before I am satisfied that it's finished.  But I wanted to share it anyway.

Prayers in Boxes

My hands,
once supple and strong,
now aged and aching,
life dusty books from their shelves,
fit them carefully into boxes,
tape them closed,
label them with a black Sharpie,
the smell of which slices through
the smell of dust and mold
and love grown old.

There are cobwebs in my hair
and tears in my throat.

On one shelf,
alongside books about writing,
I find the prayer journal I made him
I-don’t-remember-how-many years ago.
I flip through its yellowed pages,
touched that he kept it all this while,
and at the same time so aware
he never wrote a word
on those carefully crafted pages.

That was the problem all along,
of course,
I realize
as I tuck the journal into a box
with other books
and seal the top with tape.

Her Father’s Funeral (an unfinished poem)

This poem is unfinished.  It's a recent piece and will likely be revised many times before I am satisfied that it's finished.  But I wanted to share it anyway.

Her Father’s Funeral

She waited until the crowd had gone
The backhoe was filling in the grave
She asked the old man if she could have a minute please
And he agreed
She dropped the witch bottle into the half-filled grave
With a small bunch of lilies tied with black string
She nodded to the old man
And he began filling in the grave again
And she walked away
Walked away free

Elephants

An elephant is the only mammal
that cannot jump.
I guess that's why it stands here
in the middle of the living room
while we serve tea on its back
and speak in hushed tones.

Totems

We must make totems of ourselves,

carve our faces and our hands into hardwood poles.

We must sculpt ourselves from clay, from stone.

How else will the gods find us?

They must know us by our bodies,

by our hands.

To Carry On

Your memories are like moths

beating their wings around my head

as if I am a beacon of light

but I am shrouded in fog

and the horn fails to blow

and the load is heavy

but I carry you everywhere I go

Snow on Cedars

It is Monday morning.

There is snow lying on the cedars

outside the window.

The cat is sleeping

on the afghan-covered couch.

Dishes are stacked in the sink.

There is a basket of clean laundry

at the foot of the bed.

I will not pet the cat today.

I will not wash the dishes.

I will not fold the laundry.

The best that I can hope for

is to remember the snow on the cedars.

Pigs’ Blood

Terror spills like pigs’ blood

on the slaughterhouse floor

soaked up by sawdust

but the smell-

you can smell the blood

and the terror

four blocks away

where between the old row houses

women hang laundry to dry

and half-clothed children play.