Otter Rock, November 2005

You would think that lifting small children, shovels, and car jacks
Would strengthen the spine.
All that physical labor
Must surely transfer to the soul
And lend it sinew.

Hold a three-legged stone pot in your hands
And speak to the woman who brought it forth;
It is no different from praying.
Might as well then speak to the double rainbow
That frames the sea, the headland and our imperfect lives.

Or the perfectly shaped ochre rock that washed up on the shore
And lies at your feet
Pockmarked with vanished grains of sand.

Ask how they became strong, what enabled them to stand alone,
Glowing, speechless, unafraid of your hands and thoughts
Both of which can shatter anything in creation.

Their strength is in presence, not perfection.
A spine that is still
Whether held, felt, or simply viewed
Can transmit the force that shaped it,
The beauty of its nature
The strength that comes from being,
Not lifting.

Word Endings

I read the words we wrote to each other
Words like "imagine" and "dream" and "hold" and "kiss,"
Buried amongst thoughts which surround and protect
Like a platoon on the march into dangerous territory.
There is sweetness, and desire, and the deep sadness
Of two who have sought each other across an unbridgeable divide.
Life, as it is, won out.
Thousands of thoughts and hours of longing later,
The words lie limply, victims of a slaughter,
Overcome by superior forces.
They will pop up again, like daisies in a graveyard,
Lighting dark places, entrancing children and lovers,
Always seeking reconciliation,
Unwilling to give up the ghost.

"Woman with Snail"
by Salvador Dali

Favorite food - "Escargot," she wrote,
Thinking to intrigue those unfamiliar with its dense flavor
Remembering the smooth, sharp bite of garlic;
An aphrodisiac for sure!
But Dali knew better.
The snail perched on the woman's belly oozed its potent liquid over her pliant form;
No splintery bones here to alert her of the danger!
Only the imperceptible movement of the snail across her body.

What draws us to love's nailed tongue?
What convinces us of the pleasures of pain?
Where are our whorls of protective covering
Defending the rich texture and taste of our hearts?

The Primary Emptiness

What do I do with this insatiable grief
Gnawing at my heart as I begin each day?
How do I turn its attention from my flesh
And substitute something that stills its hunger?
I have fed it tears, and its tongue laps for more;
I have tasted the flesh of strange men, and it only writhes with desire;
I have sipped dark wine until my words are slurred senseless.
What is left?
Shall I write until my eyes are blind, my hands numb, and my soul emptied of sadness?
What will fill the primary emptiness?