--GOT THE PROPHET ON MY TONGUE

Loam

I need another

language for grief,

one the crows don’t know. 

They keep clawing

and pecking

while this window

continues to crack,

a thousand flawed diamonds

falling naked in my lap. 

The day you said,

“I am _______” is

still a dead bird

caught in the middle

of my throat. 

What did you think,

that I could hold

the sky for ransom,

nail gun Pandora’s lid

permanently shut? 

Maybe what I really

need right now

is a shovel,

a plot of loamy earth

and two committed feet

to tamp down

what I never could. 

—ALL AROUND ME ARE FAMILIAR FACES

                        Flowers for My Father

  

You were either a prairie bursting clouds or a dark room overrun with sharp objects none of us could avoid.  You made the dirt tremble.  Days and nights, your boxcutter breath warped the sun with its black magic, yet the moon never shone.  One way or another, everyone danced for you.

But just yesterday I watched a heron devour a lion.  Don’t believe me?  The photo is sitting on my sill, right there next to your ashes and a flower for every day you said you loved us.

—I HEAR YOUR VOICE CALLING ME: LET IT RAIN, LET IT RAIN, LET IT RAIN  

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