The Gods Argue About Sex


Hera wants a man with deliberate hands, 
a little love poetry tongued 
in that spot just behind her ear.  Zeus 
wants a woman with Olympic kneeling 
power, the ability to swallow 
in a flood. On their top ten lists 
of dream lovers, she chooses Kerouac 
for his dreamy eyes and maybe Yeats, 
or Rhett Butler, except for his bad breath 
and limited vocabulary.
He picks Emily Dickinson (those dashes), 
Cleopatra (all that staying power) and Cher
(her one syllable name).  
Zeus says women have more pleasure,  
with multiple orgasms and the g spot.
Hera says men have the most fun,
their tool so useful for peeing outdoors
and writing in the snow.
They can’t agree and finally ask Tiresias, 
who lived eight years as a woman— 
something to do with voyeurism 
and copulating snakes.  Reluctantly 
he says that indeed women 
have nine times more pleasure.
Hera is furious, so positive 
that men have it best, with their 
never-ending supply of phallic symbols: 
guns, fishing poles, weed whackers,
guitars strummed low, jack
hammers and golf clubs. 
She rages and fumes, threatens
a lifetime of headaches, while Zeus 
laughs until his sides ache, 
saliva trickles down his chin, the crotch 
beneath his robe quivers.
Hera blinds Tiresias for his insolence.  
Zeus, not to be outdone, 
gives him the ability to see 
with his hands. 

Pencil Test: Cassandra Press:  2001



Theory of Salt


A tense bond of elements 
like a marriage, more soluble 
in hot than cold water. Some say 
panic is made of it, the hollow 

of an armpit bathed in brine, 
a pocket of sweat and terror:  
God’s wrath became an ochre post, 
while Lot’s wife blazed.  

Or Morton’s cobalt canister, 
made famous by an umbrella, 
held by a little girl her yellow dress 
tilted under a reign 

of salt that spins a tumult behind her. 
Some say salt perks up coffee, 
soothes sore throats, cleans vases and pots, 
It removes red wine stains, protects 

pantyhose, eats fish odors, and cuts rust. 
And how do we live without it,  
our bodies forever craving a sprinkle of the sea? 
Even salary comes from the word— 

crystal cakes exchanged as money.  
Still I wonder how we come to 
know it, savor its elemental 
fault, the sweet fury of desire, 

the measure of a life in a handful 
of cinder and bone.  How do we 
see clearly through 
the oceans in our eyes?

Theory of Lipstick: Main Street Rag Publications: 2013




To My Husband Cutting the Lawn


First, let go your sense of indignation and any 
amount of control.  The grass grows more certain 
each day and there is nothing you can do to stop it.  

Smooth back the lawn’s green brow; step slowly 
upon her uneven back and shoulders. 
Pull the cord wisely.  Don’t anger Mr. Briggs 

and Mr. Stratton.  They’ve been at this so long 
that they need to be stroked to start.  Allow time 
to adjust the resonance; how long have you been 

moving against the grain, your hands wrapped
with sponge, knuckles tight from so much holding?  
Not even drought can spare you now, so you might 

as well come to the Zen of it, a synchronicity 
of step and spray, walk and pray.  Look over 
your shoulder and know you could fall anytime.

Flight Patterns: Winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest


Boy


He drifts down the hall like a clumsy 
thought.  Two aides guide him—one tickles 
the underside of his arm, the other 
pushes a stiff fist in the small of his back 
while she arranges a backpack 
on reluctant shoulders.  He tries 
to carry a shopping bag in his teeth, 
stoops to pick something shiny from the floor. 
He is twelve, big and slow as an old 
tug.  A bowl of stiff hair hides 
the tumors that grow on his brain 
and pock his face in an angry, purple stain. 

At home his father rocks him, hums 
Brahms, strokes his palm.  His mother pokes 
food into his mouth like a bird, 
cleans him with a soft cloth.  At school 
kids laugh and point while he shuffles 
to the private thrum in his miswired 
head.  As he meanders the hall, 
he navigates the blue lines of some 
ancient map.  When he lifts his head, 
he moans a note so large that whales, 
mountains and other giants turn to listen.

Flight Patterns: Winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest



Run Amok


Waiting in the express line at Copps, I read the latest tabloid headlines and learn that the world’s monsters are out of control, and while top scientists can’t explain it, I think I know why Nessie has started killing people.  Meanwhile the woman in front puts 18 items including six cans of dog food on the 10-item conveyor, and I read that Chupacabras, the vampire predator from Puerto Rico, has been sucking the blood of household pets.  When the cashier raises a rutabaga to ask, “What is this anyway?”  I am appalled.  Big Foot’s attacks on the unsuspecting are up 300 percent, and Lizard Man has clubbed a woman to death in South Carolina.  The guy in the next lane is arguing with his lover over Ben and Jerry’s while Indiana’s Giant Turtle has knocked down 12 garages and trompled the cars inside.  Someone has pushed a cart into the back of my legs, and now Skunk Apes are raising a stink in Florida and half man/half alligator marauders are on the rise there, too. Maybe it’s the water, I think, as my purchases are totaled. The cashier calls someone older to scan the wine while I note that the Abominable Snowman has formed an army in Tibet, and the furry creatures have been seen marching through the mountains carrying spears and sharpened snow shovels.  All of this conspires to make me wonder what the world is coming to. The bagger asks paper or plastic, and I nod my head, knowing that any minute New York City’s gators will mutate into Republicans.  It’s good to know Mothman is flying again.

Catch and Release: Marsh River Editions: 2005