the lord the lord the lord is my

the lord the lord the lord is my shep…

don’t tell me

how to feel, don’t you dare tell

me how to feel.

god’s

mercy.  bullshit.

shove that mercy

up your ass.

or better yet, his

ass

if you can’t,

find him.

where was he

where was he when all those

She’s and He’s…

when my…

where.

was.

he.

Clerk: Whatever You Say, Say Nothing

Clerk:  Whatever You Say, 

Say Nothing

                        

                       You know them

by the decline of their spine

the epileptic twitch of their eyelid

when they drop the penny

on the floor and it twists

and rolls while they or a neighbor grope

old tiles for where it may

have lit: cold copper in the dust

the bottom shelf. 

                        Her boy was in here

just before school ended, no penny

but a wish and when I asked

what he’d get on his report card, all A’s?

he said yes—and left with a hard

round cheek

gurgling a thank-you, holding the door

for a sir or a ma’am, smiling back

at me through the glass.  I’d a thought

to hire him this summer,

                                                to sweep

or stock, or load a bag or two

for those ma’am’s and sirs

or run this or that down the road

to Mrs. Cleaves, young

new widow,  loves to see children,

Jesus, what a shame.  What a shame.

When What’s Dowsed Speaks Aloud: : : I'm River I'm Lake I'm Rain

When What’s Dowsed Speaks Aloud: : : I'm River I'm Lake I'm Rain

I grew out of all this

like a weeping willow

inclined to

the appetites of gravity.

                                    Seamus Heaney

                                    “Kinship”

I'm bottom

and under – a bottom

more than bottom – yet all

you men see

(before my bodice froth is glass

then chop –)

is froth in the slough

and spume.  It’s later, off bottom,

my muffled tongues

are beneath a day that started so

benign the unseen shudder

of it is another kind of sin

settling into your lung.

While some were saved,

it's the children on shore who are

the doomed

viewers, who'll

wake up coughing –

but me – liquid breath – I see

everything after the mud’s

swept by the wave’s broom:

a body, a hand print,

a shoe a picnic basket,

a raincoat tarp.

Listen: it’s something

when one heart

relieves itself, 

its utter last rhythm,

in me

but another

if it’s all those eighteen

or twenty and counting,

the two or three

who tripped

their ground

and jumped

and through the fizz &

their own weak wind

gained enough to retrieve

their solid ground. 

Don’t think I don’t know

what happens

here.  Curse me yet.

And though you will never swim

again I know it’s you

who watched,

who stood

until your boys, your girls, couldn’t

push back.  All that fun

gone seductive until they sunk

and clung

twos and threes

while I drifted –

always drifted and 

drifted by – anonymous

as God’s only first

wordless thaw.

Recovery

Recovery

It’s nothing no really it’s nothing

            though they said in the paper…         

            I shouldn’t read the paper

            every story contradicts

            the one before it…they said

            it was the teacher dove in first

            and I’ll give it

            to her she went in first, girdle

            stuck to her like her own

            skin, and when everything came

           

            over her head and she dove

            before any of us knew

            I went right behind her Jesus

            it was cold…later I’d read ‘acute

            dilation of the heart’

            and saw the four girls pressed

            like honeycomb and I tried

            to pry them the way my grand-

            father pried the left edge of the bee-

            hive after blueberry season,

            smoke it then twisted loose

            the screw and all those drunk bees

            clumsy in their muck of honey

            how the perfect comb pours out

            a summer’s work in gold,

            his brush and scrape, the weight         

            of the wax breaking it all

            in two…and he’d lay what remained

            on a table stained with years of it,

            years…

            only those girls, I couldn’t pry

            them apart, I couldn’t haul them all

            to shore, girls all wide and white

            eyes glazing opaque, the way honey,

            when left on the table

            goes dull and muddy until the smoke

            goes and is soon a frenzy, covered

            when recovered, with a buzz

            of women, all wings, all hum and pulse

            and dust until every edge of debris

            is clean and they stumble

            to their broken box, a clean screen

            a stunned queen and hone nothing

            home nothing, drunk on nothing

            but their love.

Unfound

Unfound

A word ma’am I beg a word 

for this cup

            she held it

            out, chipped

            first sharp

            now smooth

            to the lips.

            she drank

            from it.

A word.  They gave you a word

when your husband died.  They gave Johnny

a word when he was left

on the grocery step

a Christmas or two

ago. 

            oh cup

            oh

            bottomless

            oh

            cup

            oh

            smut of the flown

            oh

            doves

Not Widow.  Not Dowager.  Not Relict.

Or Orphan. Or Foundling. Or Waif or Stray.

What, please you, for this: a flown soul remaining?

What?  But please, pin it here

            she lifts

            her dirty shirt.

            the pale heart’s

            a bare pulse

            in the wake

            of her

            broke open

            bone grotto

a word for me, the mother

of two

my last two

(i've buried seven

now)

who stayed 

sunk under the water

until, recovered, were laid out

in straight line

like in some fairy story

Teacher

in for a bit of fog...

Teacher

Down to her skirt and girdle she sees double

and triple:  buoys of girls surface

and sink, boys bob and drop—

Yes, down now to her girdle

she runs and dives.  She swallows

water because she was screaming

when she went in, you can’t swim

and scream Burhoe, push it push it!

At once she’s not in the water

at all but in class and  

            Bobby, it’s curved this way            do the letter again, open

            it’s mouth to the right—yes—that’s it—ok—now do 100 yes

            100 and then you can go; Rowena I bet you’re excited

            for the picnic next week will Mr. London be bringing

            his boat?  Oh good, we’ll have a marvelous time.  Just

            like last year.  Me?  I’m making cakes and sandwiches—of course

            report cards oh they’ll be—don’t—boys please don’t push and shove

            to get out the door— Miss Burhoe please I need…

and then hair like pier rope wrapped around

her hand, count, it was 100 C’s and Rowena

to get here and grab, sandwiches and cake and boys

and Mr. London’s boat still tipped and two girls slipping

on and off its keel and sweet Rowena helping

the little ones and recess and pull sweet Jesus Lord

pull and cake and sandwiches and

            it’s my turn Miss Burhoe, pick

            me, pick me…

Keep Your Scissors Sharp and Your Eye on the Belt

Keep Your Scissors Sharp and Your Eye on the Belt:

A Mother’s Substitute, Factory Floor

Needing to save her mother’s space, weeks later she leans out

to the cool  dark:30 to listen to the pitch of each

factory whistle, those six or so in town and

the one that calls them.  

Because she’s the one whose holding

her mother’s

spot while some salvage, maybe?, recovers?

Who can?

And all the factory women say take

as much time as you need

and the floor boss but not too long.

So the shrill whistle.  The fast packed

pail all tea and bread and what all

else could be shoved into it.  And

because she’s told not

to be one of those girls who go

table to table when she’s late, she walks early,

she’s standing in line next to the old women

who smell like church on Monday morning

and grease and vein and brain by

Monday afternoon.

She needs to be:

            in line to have her scissors sharpened,   

            to have Dotty tape her fingers,

            and stand next to her, and not

            the woman

            who hoards and heaps

            the fish in front of her like she’s a goose

            and this brood is hers, like she could save

            them only those drowning

            again. 

            Don’t drift with scissors

            in your hand honey.

But against the glass

            reflection she absolutely

            sees she’s floating in pink

            mother-of-pearl.  In funeral

            lace.  She pitches in sick

nausea.  It’s boats.  It’s steam heat

it’s sway of the gray dead …she squeezes the sharp

blades closed.  She breathes the blood

and oil, it’s raw and those dead are staring straight

at her. 

Listen: everyone here had someone

who had someone who was on

Cal’s boat.  In the clang and bang,

when the passing foreman gives

a quick wink to the girl on the end

of the belt

while

the women have a Monday night twelve hours standing

mouth, a God-Damn-It shit and piss

mouth so when the hoarder pushes

this girl out of the line when she’s falling on fish

and spit.  When she’s spitting in it, the other women fly

             to her, it’s: Listen you bitch!

            There’s fish enough

            for all of us.  You leave this girl

            alone.  You didn’t lose a soul

            at that lake.  Her mother’s lost

            plenty.  Leave her alone or I’ll stick you so no one

            would think it anything but

            the way you pull the whole belt

            to your tray and this one time you pulled

            your scissors straight into your beehive.

            Leave.  Her.  Alone.

More motherly: And missy.  Cut what you can—

tomorrow stand next to me—I’ll show

you heads and tails and how to weave

a pattern so pretty in the can

you’ll think it’s a pie crust dear.

Keep your scissors sharp and your eye

on the belt on the fish on the can this one and the one

coming undone when you’re on your way

back from the shit house better wait

to go sorry about your brother how’s your mother holding up I bet

you’re keeping her spot for her you’re a good girl

for that a good girl here stand by me I’ll show you how

to cut and pack.