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Income
I'm hammering sticks into cruciforms,
selling these fragile things.
One strike to the nail and it's made,
thrown into the pile with the others.
Like black water
I don't move.
If the last time lasts forever
so does the first.
The heat is struck down by bitter coldness
when the sun snaps the thread on the horizon.
Too cold to move
I wrap my blankets around me.
I am not a native.
Birthday (4/97) and love for Allen
i betrayed my first thoughts by doing
dishes, two pots on the window and 2 pm my morning.
food for shroud of guilt before a list of particulars
melting from the grey screen to the grey sky.
a pause at what is possible always puts my nerve at odds
with the 24 hours that tick...a hen jerking its head upright
and to an opposite direction, comb flopping and slapping
the right eye. oh, back to the grain upon the floor.
i sat on the couch traveling through video
searching eyes for hearts and words for love
memories for truth and days for guts of meaning.
i write my loves, i write myself, i forget to sweep.
nothing but a HUGE feeling that folds words upon words
and tears upon joy, and nothing to touch, nothing to hold.
it is no vapor dissipating, no empty pack of butts, no end to start again,
no trip to the store, no re-invention of here; or us.
the phone rings. it's Mother, the link to mystery,
the love, the run from love, the infinite and finite, the
ache of flesh, the seed of life, the fear, the run from fear.
our conversation is short and widespread, a groundcover of fragrant Fall leaves.
i betray my second thoughts to do the next sink of dishes,
i assess the dryness of those in the rack, the concentration of soap in the basin.
this small task is simple and repairs my nerve, soon to be in the sanctuary
of stacking and washing again...putting in order what has become undone.
i am not 50 yet
and i am not grown yet
and i am no different than the day i was born.
Ann Gleeson has recently moved to Taos, NM. Her poetry has appeared in Coldspring Journal, Emigre, and How(ever). (June 09)