Provence, 1998

We sat
on sun-warmed stone, a bench outside
the little house,
and looked out at the lavender fields.

She closed her eyes and inhaled,
the sleepy sweet smells of dusk in Provence,
of July and dinner and daughter
and over it all, the blanketing scent
of the waving purple hills below us,
layered silence-

Forehead on her cool shoulder,
I absorbed it all,
kept it like dried flowers for winter.

to Sanary-Sur-Mer

Its been too long, my friend, since your sand
scorched the backs of my legs.
Remember that thing you told me, about learning from mistakes
and moving on?
I looked up at the angled slice of moon above you and nodded,
but it was a lie. I didn't believe you.
Sanary, your jeweled seas were too much for me, the baked
cobbled streets filled my lungs with dust like a drug,
you had me at hello.

Sanary, when he left me crumbling like a ruined
chateau, I saw fruit and thought of you.
I tried to learn, I really did-

But the fire in my throat was hungry and angry,
and I craved the gelato and peace we ate together
out of plastic cups-

And I never learned to forget the sun.

There are days we live life
as if death were nowhere
in the background.
There are finger-painted mornings
and thick buggy afternoons when
we run barefoot down hills, crush
clover and bees with our dirty hells,
swinging buckets empty of all but
seashells.
There are evening when all
that we carry are our shoes
in our hands
and the ocean in our eyes.

To the Man Whose Car I Hit

In the white horizontal light
of a November afternoon, I pulled
into a parking space next to
your old black Mazda.

There was one cringing silent
moment- just a split second,
I swear- your car lifted, bounced-
nudged by my bumper- gently,
I promise!
In the spiderweb shadows thrown
by leafless branches, it was hard
to find the mark. Possible,
but difficult.

Why were you in Shop-Rite
that blinding Friday? Frozen pizza
in cardboard for a night alone, or perhaps
further down the aisle for your fiance's
favorite ice cream?
You were gone when I emerged
clutching my chocolate chips, started
my car and rumbled away-
I'm sorry.
I was cowardly.

But don't you think, stranger, that
it is better to live life zoomed out, anyhow?
Just... don't look too closely.

Have a Perfect Saturday Morning

It begins when the light drapes itself over you,
when you tread the waters of your dreams and gaze
up at the peach-colored ceilings of your eyelids. It begins
with the time before you.

Open your eyes to drowsy yellow light, the sun
is already high in the sky.
Linger.
Your crusted eyes and hazy smile
are precious moments-
hold fast to this peace.

When you finally roll from bed,
wrinkles traced from the flannel sheets to your hot cheeks,
stumble into your lemon-scented kitchen and descover
that he has warmed up the waffle iron.

Slice fresh strawberries.
Burst sweet juice on the wooden board, flash your knife
in the sunlight, take a deep breath:
fresh fruit, warm waffles, wood and sleep linger in the air.
Smile. Sit down and eat.

Porthole

Somewhere over Detroit, the ringing
in my ears cleared, and i looked out the
roundness of the window at a world
soft and sunny as a soap commercial.

Somewhere far below me his ashes lay buried
in the iron November earth, but here on the pleather seat,
face against a layer of plexiglass,
it is easier to compare sky to eyes and sun
to spirit
than to consider
daughters left behind.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Some days I just want to wear boots,
the real kind, leather with heels made to stomp.
I want to make noise, to kick my feet
and raise a ruckus, I want to flash my star-shaped
earrings in the evening light, I want to sparkle.
I want to see it all reflected in the wet
of your eyes, like children watching fireworks-
I aim to make your jaw drop.