Croissants

Late in the night he comes, ma petite, mon chere,
kiss on the nose like a kitten's-
ma belle fille, des bonnes reves.

In the morning he will wake you
with butter in a pan, his smile is wide
as a cat's, his eyes are like yours, mon cherie.
He brings you a mug of je t'aime
with your eggs, yolk-y sunlit room,
cavernous with his laugh.

He reaches for the suitcases,
full of ma petite, mon chere even as you grab
his slick hands, at the door you are asking,
begging, but he says only ah, ma belle fille,
and slips through the cracks in your fingers.

Red riding-hood tripped,
thats why the cookies were a little dirty.
Her skinned knee dribbled red
into her white socks, chocolate chips
on the ground like bugs, she ran,
knees pumping and elbows reaching,
leaving cookies as she went,
the house was red brick and white shutters,
inside: her grandmother,
consumed by a smile.

Sacre Coeur, 1942

An exit sign glows above the cathedral door
and he feels his way along the edges,
wooden pews smooth and cool,
he lowers himself to the granite floor
in the center of an aisle.

His jewish grandmother would faint
to see him here- her hands fluttering
like worried butterflies, concern
etching her forehead--

The ceilings arch pale into
the distance, airy white marble
columns like spun sugar,
a fairy palace.

His elbows rest on the floor
and he tips his head back,
cavernous moon-room striped
with colored light, silent
and flickering, beacon
of holy hope and horror.

In this delicate cave of peace
on this hill here above
occupied Paris- food
for the boy, hungry for more.

The bricks blush red and solid in the heat of midday.
He is proud of his handiwork, this man
in navy coveralls who spends his life
building walls. He is strong and careful.

It is a rhythm he falls into like a drunkard
into his bottle, comfortable:
spread perfectly even layers of mortar,
thick and level as a well- iced cake,

place the bricks, interlocking like friends, maybe
like lovers, he doesn't know, this average
joe- he knows only the red
and the white and the rhythm,

this bruise-thumbed man with the red face
and china-chip rheumy eyes, he hums
the confident hum of one who knows what he is doing-

and he does not wonder about those who will live
and pound their fists and die behind the walls
of the building he climbs a step higher to finish.

His dusty radio crackles and blares with empty love
songs, his mind is a well-built blushing wall, he is safe.

Bar Sur Loup (an attempt at using form)

Silent on the carved hillside, village
of cool stone and old men, we dragged
clacking suitcases up cobbled streets.
Love is the opened door from sweating
burnt stone and cucumbers on glass.

Silent Provencal night, sudden
cicada screams deafening, my
feet bare on warm marble- safe in
the midnight sunset I hid
Love, the silent stone men and open door.

Director

I'm producing a play in my head-
it might be a musical- a real
crowd pleaser, and you play several parts:
you will spend hurried moments in the darkness
of backstage changing roles.
I gave you some monologues- sorry-
they'll be difficult to memorize
but I figured you were the best one
to explain why it was that the damsel
was in distress.

How to Fuck Up Completely (from a prompt)

The first step is to find
people to hurt. Fucking up is no good
in isolation- if no one cares, you haven't truly
done wrong. Consider of course
family members, but also teachers, mentors, friends.
Find someone who is truly proud of you
when you bake a delicate souffle,
who makes you soup when you are sick,
Find someone who applauds your hard work
and encourages you to apply to Princeton.

The second step is to stop thinking.
Toss back shots, carry guns, fall in love
with expensive dresses and take them
from shops simply because you want them.
Listen to advice and then discard it.
Laugh at cops, pee on doorsteps,
decide that you want to have your grandmother's ring
and drop by to search for it at three a.m.
Wake up on glass-studded concrete half clothed
and congratulate yourself on a job well done.

To the Robin's Child

What can I say to you, this small dark
puddle of bone and tissue, paper
shell half crushed?

It is green here, and warm and moist.
The grass is foamed with white clover,
the trees turning dark for summer.
The sky today is heavy and the color of old
snow-

Perhaps your mother's tiny yellow foot
slipped, maybe they fought-your parents-
over dinner about his mother coming to stay,
maybe he kicked in anger, punching
clawed toes, then stood horrified.

Or perhaps the storms that shook
my windows this week shook her wings,
your poor small mother with far too many
small skulls to protect.

As it is you will miss the trip south come
October - your siblings
will perch on telephone wires in suburban Georgia
and wonder.

Dangers surround them- plate glass
windows pale as the sky, orange cats
with yellow eyes that glow in the evening.

In the morning drizzle all i can see here are
the threads of your neck,
your tiny closed eye.

Self-Pity Late At Night

"Wouldn't you love somebody to love?" - Jefferson Airplane

I find it painful how
even now I can be left desperate.
When I was small, I watched fish in tanks
and felt sorry for them,
now I only wonder what they see.
What I really want is to be bundled up
in cotton and held
until time has ended, and we will watch
the snow outside and wait in silence until
I know I am safe.
I can only see as fish see, stationary,
and what I really want
is for you to turn me in circles.

Musings, post breakfast

(several entirely separate ideas)

In the light i can see now
that I'm still in control, I
can zoom out and admire your breath
on my bare shoulders, in this pale morning
I take snapshots to frame cooly
behind glass.

At the zoo you can see
the great cat that paces a path into the edge
of the grass and what you expect
me to do now is compare myself
to the pathetically reduced majesty, but really
I identify with the grass.

Signs of Madness:
I want to see the world in primary colors
like on an ancient tired TV-
rub me with buttercups and I can almost
believe it is sunlight.
Pull the pits from ripe avocados-
sucking noises, oily knobs of wood.
I want smooth green skin, I wish
I could understand what it is you are telling me
but counter clockwise seems to be
the only way to go these days-
and you are standing still.

What I Have Learned

I'm pretty sure now
that falling in love involves falling
in love with the whole world.
That my eyes are clearer and my skin
softer and I'm pretty sure
I love the rain because of you.
I still kill ants on the counter-top
but I do it
lovingly,
A silly word I know but when you're
wearing neon nail polish
and carrying a secret smile like some silk
undergarment tight against your
abdomen, the quiet hum of One Who Is Loved,
what can you do but
hug trees and kiss
the quivering buds of lilies?

Secret

I have this primal hunger
to be an artist.
I want to inhabit tall- ceilinged rooms
full of dusty light, and smelling
strongly of ideas and mysteries and turpentine.
I want to spread gooey colors
on stretched canvas, to dab and stroke
and squint my eyes,
I want to use my hands.
I want streaks of paint on my cheek and on
my jeans and in my hair,
I want to smudge charcoal with my thumb
and make something
beautiful.

Speechless

Funny how broken hearts
roll off the tongue, stick to the page,
arrange themselves tragically before you.

Interesting how happiness is slippery,
how i wander through streets and cakes,
search the undersides of old boats-
All I want is to do it justice, but
all my words are Gone.

Breakfast

Today as I buttered my toast,
I thought of you.
The creamy yellow melted slowly
into my mother's brown bread
and I was remembered the way
the cookies burned while you giggled into my neck.

Special

When the morning came in through the window
and painted every small hair on your shoulder golden,
you jumped from the bed and pulled my hand-
you said that today was the day.

Later in the dusk I wondered quietly
what day it had been- your shoes glowing
in the evening, I stood and watched your retreat.