ICE

I heard her parched and weary voice 

in the distance cry out for

ice, more ice

and immediately thought of 

the ice in Gabriel García Márquez’ first line 

of One Hundred Years of Solitude

and then thought of the peace 

that was coming her way

 like a solitude well-earned 

like a childhood re-discovered 

after a barrage of

one too many good-byes.

THE TRAPPER

It felt like a dream

but wasn't one.

Maybe it felt dream-like

because someone had

accidentally fallen asleep 

on a couch somewhere

and their little bit of oblivion

somehow filtered into

my world. I don’t know.

But at the time 

I went about setting 

the trap I was setting

I knew nothing about

any day-time dozer.

I only knew that the trap 

was about me 

taunting trust.

And even though 

it wasn’t actually a dream 

it might as well have been

because in dreams

every part of the dream 

is a part of us, they say.

Anyway...what I mean 

to say is: once I woke up 

to what I was doing 

in the non-dream-dream

I clearly saw that

I was the “bear,”

the trap and the trapper

all at once.

And, that while I was the one

that got caught in the jaws 

of my own entrapment,

the so-called dozer,

wherever they were, 

managed to remain unscathed

by any intended subterfuge 

that hung heavy in the air.

All the dozer was really doing 

was getting caught 

up on some 

much needed shut-eye—

which, coincidentally, was 

what saved them 

from getting entangled

in an oblivion 

that wasn't obliged 

to finding any solace 

in trusting trust.

WISHBONE

I feel 

divided.

Half of me 

is wounded

off-balance

tenuous.

At risk.

Lost in 

the stuff of

flesh and bone

Ungrounded.

The other half 

is healthy

a healer

strong.

In full stride. 

Lead by visions

by spirit.

Is rooted to

the earth, the elements 

and soul.

I try to walk 

a straight line

in this body 

of mine

but feel like

 a wishbone

ready to split

in two.

What is the wish

I carry

I wonder?

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

Like the image 

not yet risen 

from a darkroom 

developing tray, 

he came to me 

as the whisper

of a wave,

as the faintest 

of feelings. Gradually

he floated 

to the surface

of my being, 

of my body,

as a presence, 

as a spirit 

wanting to exit 

the liminal liquid. 

He wanted 

to enter the world 

as breath, as tears,

as the sound 

of deep sobbing.

And so 

he did.

My dead father

came through me today.

I gave birth to him

through my

morning practice.

I grieved him.

I remembered him.

I wished 

I could 

hold him 

in my arms

like a new born.

I wished 

I could 

rock and cradle him

in the deep well

of the love 

and gratitude

I now have

for all he gave me

that I could not fathom 

I was given

until recently, because 

I had been the “babe” 

for too long

and had been too busy 

with my own 

arrested development, 

too busy trying

to fill in the blanks.

RAIN 

The rain was raining

So hard and so loud

That I held my phone

Up to my the bedroom window

Of my newly renovated 

Double-paned house

While you held your phone

Up to the living room ceiling 

Of your one-hundred-year-old

Brick and timbered home.

We let these rains

At your house and mine

Talk to each other.

 

We did this, I believe,

Because we believed, without

Knowing we did,

That the rain had more 

To say to itself 

Than we did 

To each other.