hypothetical babies

I can't say that I dreamed of being a mother.
The lines in my design were too bold
to be considered a dream.

All the other plots on my plan
(a writer, a traveller, a singer)
were just branches off what I thought
was a fixed path.

Such childish cartography,
mapping out milestones
and hypothetical babies.

Now, not so far away from forty,
and I am still at the chore 
of recalibrating the compass at my core
that keeps giving me false directions.

a slippery sunday tanka

Sun creeps through pained glass 

shattering against white walls 

and dusty floorboards 

as I slip through the shadows 

of yet another Sunday.

"How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become" - Doc Luben

The guilt pushes into the pit of me, like a magnet
pulling my belly button straight through to my spine.
I carry it low. 

It is an aching want that covers every inch of my skin
like I'm waiting on something that will never show
and so can't be named. 

I have forgiven myself for not becoming a mother.
What I can't seem to forgive is that part of me
that still thinks the universe will deliver.  

the first crocus

I used to think that you were bold
peaking through the cold soil
before the rest were sure it was safe.
Scouting it out. Blazing the way.

But I, too, like to show up early -
for doctor's appointments and dinner dates,
meeting up for a hike or the farmer's market.
I set the GPS even when I know where I'm going. 

I see you now, your purple petals shivering
in April's morning frost, counting your breaths
to calm your cluttered mind. Waiting.
Hoping you got it right, that the others
will see you and that you'll survive this. 

full weekend

Sometimes Sunday devours me whole
and I sit heavy in its stomach, upsetting
its chances of getting much else done.

I am like a steak and cheese sub, tempting
time to taste my weighted weekend apathy,
loaded with nothing nourishing.

A set table

we are collecting unopened mail, mostly
from banks, sometimes from insurance companies,
in the center of our unused dining room table.

I mean, unused for dining. 
It serves a purpose.
That's where the mail goes.

And sometimes empty boxes, waiting
to be broken down.
And there's a spot right on the edge
for my late library books.

Instead of chairs, there's
a pew tight against the wall
that could seat three, I'd guess.

For now, that's where the snow shoes go
that we bought for Christmas but have yet to put on.

It's just been so cold lately.
We can't seem to get out. 

thrown back

Sitting at Larsen's fish market, where we sat just last summer, I decide to order a fresh lobster and watch the ocean like it was my own tradition. The young 20 something Ukrainian kid working the register picks up a few lobsters to weigh and throws all but one back into the waiting tank.

I wonder if the other lobsters ever try to will themselves back into the sea or just gone from this earth all together. Or maybe they don't.

Tonight, I cleaned out our junk drawer of bills and organized our linen closet. I fed our cats
and made a quiche. And at 5:40pm, I noted the time.

Maybe you're getting home to your new apartment. Or maybe there's traffic or road sodas and detours.

I'm not waiting for the sound of your tires on the gravel tonight, always
backing in to the driveway, and your key fumbling, one handed entry.

On the weekend, morning will seep through our shades, and I'll rise when I'm ready
to coffee and cats and a walk to the farmers market on my own.

It was an unexpected weight that pulled me deep into this tank, only to wait again for your imminent catch and release. Or maybe I won't. 

the heaviness of hope

It sits low, like an ache or a weight

pulling me inside, like an anchor

dragging at the bottom, pushing

aside shifting ground, making invisible waves.

If only I could float above this,

just to see the shore, and the moon

tugging the tides. Just to see

it’s all bigger than me.

fertilty clinic: a haiku

blood work leaves bruises

but, like a junkie, I'm back

looking for my fix.

the overhead light

squeezes against the slate colored carpet,

the white walls,

and the constant

buzz from a broken projector.

sharp words on a dull subject

bounce between one person

to the next as I press my pen

hard into my notepad

drawing endless circles

like a stone wall.

exhausted by the want

i’ve got a habit  of collecting
my dark thoughts for the night

and then i count them
like sheep.

The books by my bed
are just place holders for dust, bookmarked
with old to-do lists
written on the back of unopened envelopes.

I am exhausted by the want.
This anxious emptiness
that comes from imagining more.

first of many waves

When Theo graduates from college you will have drawn 2,843 more of your people, perfected
the watermelon margarita for Jennifer, and found a way to avoid all ladder work.

You will have taught your grandsons about the power of words and whiskey and sitting still.

Oliver and Theo will have driven down the camp road over a thousand times; they’ll know the smell of the pine needles in the same way they know their own breath; they’ll have memories to match each mile it took them to get to your house.

So much of who I am is because of my grandfather.

How he raised you shaped how you raised us, and how Kelsey will raise the boys, and so on...

Grandpa's stories are me. Even the ones I've never heard and he never spoke out loud.

I wish we didn't have to die.  It seems the ocean takes it all back only a moment from when it laid us on the shore.

So we'll watch Theo and Ollie ride their first of many waves in your tide
letting them learn when to swim strong and when to let the current take them in.

out of habit

our sheets feel stale
and the pale walls of our
shoebox sized room, squeeze
against the carpeted floors.

the digital alarm clock by my side
is unplugged, and the unread
books on my table are dusty and surrounded
by half drunk glasses of water.

at night, i cover the carpet in a nest
of yesterday's clothes
and sleep out of habit.

it's simple.

it's simple.
something about that olive
green t-shirt, a day
of dirt hanging
in your hair, and the way you fry up
a pan of brussels sprouts,
keeps me thinking about you,
hours later.
even on the hard days,
it's simple.

early spring (wishful thinking)

Paper whites peak through rocks
and ragged earth, only to find unwelcoming
winter-like winds. It all ends as quickly as the thought begins.

our night in

Work sits so hard
on my pursed lips
while words still whip
from the tip
of your tongue, catching
only my corners.

It’s out of our hands now.

So let’s watch, as the heat sticks
to the dusty fan blades
spinning thick thoughts
into our unguarded walls.

Orly's 4 pound frame hugs heavy
when he sleeps, and my cradled
hand starts to tingle.
I don't want to wake him, so
just like this living room, and these deep
red shadow curtains,
I too, sit heavy.

if i stepped outside, I
would hear the birds try
to rustle up some spring

but inside, white walls and this stall
ing silence press in.
It starts sweet, like a cat nap,
until even the idea
of moving
starts to prickle.

Finally (12-30-06)

when snow falls,
finely
dusting
brick and tar and tongue the same,
even the chickadees sit quiet,
pausing
for this exhale
into winter.

10-19-06 (last winter)

when my feet felt so cold,
I tried on your slippers.
my toes tried to touch
each curve in the sole.

your house smelled like hot tea,
compost, and baking,
like books in the basement:
ink mixed with mold.

I'm sorry for trying to fit
in your slippers.
I'm sorry for trying
your warmth for my cold.

I left them behind
just how you first left them,
empty but knowing
your imprints would hold.

............radicle..........................................................................
...nothing but a chance................................................................
.anchored in shifting soil.............................................................
...the seed starts to peek..............................................................
.....past itself, to seek..................................................................
.....out a stronger grip................................................................
.......like a raw nerve..................................................................
.........the first root:....................................................................
.............radicle..........................................................................