la muerte loca

​
on a dark and stormy night
two shots rang out
and the worst of beginnings
was suddenly the worst of endings

husband, father, friend was gone

unable to hold back the madness,
the random anger that swept him,
that night's spiral down
was wider and more wicked
and when the question was simply
her survival or his
she made the call and that was all

reason gone, he could not retreat 
from himself, from the police
could not lay down the knife
and so the shots rang out
and the dark and stormy night
was the sudden end 
and beginning of her pain





loves me/loves me not


plucked from anonymity by hands of beauty
i understood the peace of belonging
until she pried a petal loose
"loves me"

the whisper didn't hold
so petal went to ground
"loves me not"
petal two joins one

around the circle
indecision cycles
piling petals at her feet
stripping me to the essence 
of who i am
all that makes me pretty
tossed aside

she sighed
dropped what was left of me
and reached for someone new





whisper the name


too early born, she challenged them
keep me if you can
and i will also fight
to prove love is not wasted

she did not know her father's fear
the uncertainty of her smallness
a spear that pierced his heart, his faith

he hesitated to lean down
could not allow himself enough hope
to breathe the name of God
into her tiny ear

each day came with the question
was it time and should he speak
bless her and make her holy
or would he offend deity
break himself on rocks of grief
if the fragile shell
around her solid spirit
fractured and fell away

every morning until day twenty-five— 
then with the joyful reassurance
of everyone who had touched her
fed her, held her here
he took her gently up
and lips to ear spoke just two names
Allah's first
then hers





black walnuts
beginning with a line from "Rough Beast" by Laura Kaminski

Adulthood, and some poets
have become black walnuts
of which california has two varieties
armor-clad beasts, one northern
one southern, as with most things
in this state

i tried once to open a stray
picked up while hiking near home
and quickly learned this lesson--
you can get at the nutmeat
but only in pieces, fragments
that resist being torn from
the body, and just to break the shell
risks destroying everything inside

ignoring the online advice that said
wear gloves! i found that the blood
of the walnut doesn't just coat unwary
fingers, it penetrates, tattoos
a stained accusation that shouts 
'never forget what you did to me'

in time the stain faded from my hands
the pungent flavor of the tiny bits
pried with such effort from the whole
washed away from my tongue
scraps of nut-skin reluctantly brushed out
but the lesson learned, the

ugly analogy of breaking apart
another poet who wanted only
to be shielded from my inquiring mind
stays and sometimes wakes me
from dreams of writing apologies
to find my fingers turning
black-brown with remorse