A kitten and I at my family reunion. :]
But I Can Try
I don’t think there are words
for how much I love you.
Can you measure space
other than with your fingers
tracing swans and heroes?
Can you equate
my heart’s quickening
at the sight of you
with anything in this world?
Tires over a bump in the road,
thump of a favorite paperback,
pound of a happy mutt’s tail;
no, nothing quite matches
what happens
when I see you
(smile, laugh, frown, be).
Can you relate
that sudden joy
to natural happenings?
Maybe my organs
are a crash of salt and foam,
a tide at your beck.
Maybe my heart’s a flock
all taking off at once, as one.
I can’t convince myself
that anything is like,
that anything is near as beautiful,
as clever and funny and loved,
as you make me feel.
Wentworth’s Bird
I’ve always been jealous of her,
so when she wrote about the wren
trapped in her yellow-lit studio,
I fly in with it.
I spread like egg white,
slope to the walls,
moisten plant leaves and books,
touch her cell phone, her purse,
the graphite lines of a picture frame:
no one I know, but I know
their expressions: elated, full,
inspired in and by her presence
-maybe her hair draws them in,
maybe her strong, hurried voice,
probably her hands, coaxing words
from metastasized cells
and pushing time into their palms.
She tried to shoo the bird
from sill to sky, but I leave instead.
I’m not her daughter, I’m not unwanted;
she needs to write
and she’s given me these touches.
cringing magnificently at some of my old poetry.
Every time I read something of mine that’s older, I do exactly that.
Standing amidst the vast expanse of
Mother Natures playground; her awe
inspiring wonder and breathtaking
beauty, fade into insignificance
with the absence of your hand.
UC Poem III (Goose Creek I)
We are six, seven, eight, so the snake is a secret
kept from older shadows.
We move limbs, clear pebbles, measure
the line of sunlight from branch to ground,
and trace the watery run of scales
with our fingers. In June’s heat,
its wake wavers. The dog gives us away.
We throw dark dirt and bark back
until her ears and paws overcome us,
our world all blonde fur and saliva,
wisps, tangles, a deceptively soft sleeve
of burs matted down one leg.
Now this animal mother breathes
the snake’s cold, foreign wash,
transforms, careers from our midst.
Threat drips from her growl.
We shush, whisper Quiet!,
but my aunt hurries over the cobbles.
So we begin to lie in earnest
-to explain away the snake,
its trail, its bulge, its want for warmth.
My aunt shrieks; we cringe then blush then point
to the beauty in black and copper bands,
its stubble-toughness yet yielding ventral
scales, like our bellies in the bath;
but she doesn’t see the same river.
She raises the shovel’s dirt-dark tip
over her hair and lops off the snake’s head.
We crouch, huddle in the dirt lane
and prod at the snake,
this inert black river suddenly dry.
Things You’ ll Never Do Again
Scribble addresses and ideas into a miniature composition
notebook, fix the rearview mirror and get distracted
by a gray hair amongst the dishwater blonde,
turn off the headlights in the middle of the night
on the old dirt road, listen to your children
scream in mock-terror and delight,
scratch behind a dog’s battle-notched ear,
put on deodorant, iron your tuxedo,
laugh loud and with your head back, mouth open,
collect coins in an ibuprofen bottle, call friends
and wink at me when you tell them jokes over the phone,
assemble a saxophone, noodle on a guitar,
drink milk or Mountain Dew or make spaghetti,
write a grocery list, write a letter or a song,
say you’re proud of me, say you love me,
be sad, be elated, be excited, be melancholy,
be silly or be mysterious or be
[author’s note: the end is intentional.]
Even the Birds
Cold here. Fog touches the paperback spine
tucked into your elbow,
sways against the black iron posts
holding the marsh in line.
Oyster-backed clouds crowd the sky.
Our breath contributes to their siege.
Between our hands is a warm vacuum,
vacant of fog, pregnant with want
to be alone and in each other.
But even the birds flee, lowing caution
to the natives wrapped in hats and scarves
and boots that punch holes through the fog,
manifesting on our car window in streaks.
You draw two fingers like shears
through the dotted condensation,
then press them to my wind-raw cheek.
Their frigidity - I want to draw them
into my mouth, law them like river stones
on my tongue, closet them like glass ornaments,
polish them until they are languid, soft
as the muted glow of a lamp post
in a heavy quilt of fog.
(c)VLPfaehler 2011
calling
palms cupped over
my earsi sit
still andhear the ocean’s
movement
slipping cold and
frothy through
the lines of
my fingers.it cries softly
sweetly.
tempting.
