Making meatloaf

My mother would always remove her rings,
place them to shine on the window sill
to protect the princess cut stone and the
anniversary rows underneath from the
cooking of housewives, the corning bowls
she raked her hands through to mix
four pounds of beef, enough for the
six Catholic products of her marriage
I followed her in this, removed past bands
and watched them on the sill, thoughts of
her perfect hands, her table set
I opt now, to leave mine on
as if the band on my finger,
modest, a dash of sparkle caught
in the recently rare October sun
is not the kind for preservation
but belongs in the mix
of meat,egg, bread crumb, ketchup.
I am told someday baby I'll put the biggest
rock on your finger, and my response is silent
in knowing the arms that wrap around my waist
when I stand at the stove
the breath on the back of my neck
on late night porches
the whispers in my collarbone in
an early morning bed
belong like my hands, deep in the making
of things, in the prepartion of spice
the churning of flavor and the making of this life
slippery, raw, red, simmering, craved

The hands I have fallen in love with

have been plentiful, varied
veined with autumn hiking trails
Scarred, leather-like
committed with gold bands
and resting on tables
sideways, crooked, aliened
They have touched pens and bifocals
corkscews, rubberbands,
and cigarettes
Like my mother's, pearled, diamoned
uncallused, undirtied, and sliding
through salt and peppered hair
aged and broken
curly, but soft still
Today's loved hands
scribbled on a yellow pad
attached to the body of the
lisping woman, crow footed
and aggressive
asking and asking

Mine would be a high risk pregnancy

It is fifteen minutes past
the death of someone iconic
and still loved by a child.
The windows have been kept open
for weeks now, so sleep
has waltzed in and twirled us.
Newborns have been in my arms
far more often than usual and
I have touched their satin
foreheads like I did my own babies.
My mother-clock is half passed over,
my nights are uninterrupted,
and I am more necessary than ever.

Been Awhile

I haven't been to the blog in awhile, I haven't written much in awhile. This past weekend I was on the West Coast, in a city that was beautiful, inspiring, and gifted plenty to move me to write. It also reminded me of the people, places, smells, sites that have inspired me. So, I'm back here, reading the comments of those who have been this fire lit for me, wondering if anyone looks here anymore. If you do, and if you are now, and if you are those someones who inspired me, thank you, and know I am thinking of you. And yes, I believe there is more writing to come.

A new kind of prayer

I suspect out the window, or from the wrap-around porch
the winter grape vines will be barren and reaching
missing their green, their fruit, their future wine
My newest dawning year will be patted on the shoulder, and asked
how did you pursue that life for this long?

I'll go barefoot on stone, sit crossed legged with my back to a fire,
speak staccato then legato of acts of contrition, the blessed mother
and her blue veil matching the eyes of my grandmother
and I'll sing psalms as they were meant, speaking first
waiting, breathless for the reply, the reply

Especially at lunch time I loved you

Watching you eat across a table
finger licking, mouth-full talking
hat cocked sideways
and your summertime arms
freckled, tanned, bare.
Today it's at noon
I walk downtown streets
eyes open for women in caps
venture into every lunch booth in town
fight the urge to walk by and let my hand
brush along every naked arm.

For my sister's wedding day toast

I have had the pleasure of knowing
a girl named Julie,
a girl who grew up to embrace
nomadic travels,
exploration,
and inquisitive quests for more
Where along the way she
scooped up love and joy,
and a boy named Andres.
I know a girl who as a child
lived in bouncing curls of red,
in shades of pink lipstick (mupscup),
striped ski caps,
and cowboy boots
3 sizes too big.
A girl who’s toddler love
was not a brown teddy bear
but a yellow giraffe,
with orange spots
and a name
that ironically identified herself
and his name was Sassy.
This was a girl who heard the inspirations of
imaginary friends,
followed them,
walked to the percussion
of imagination, fantasy,
and taught us
to live out loud.
To Julie and Andres,
who both live out loud,
in color, in brazen
hues of laughter,
passion,
invention,
and with a love
we all crave,
who scooped each other up
in the warmth of Florida
and carried each other
to this autumn day
of sunbursts, oranges,
and the red we bask in today.