blueberries
deep purple beads
Beloved of bees and bears
who we, being wary,
warn off with bells and loud voices
our natural loudness turned up
to let them hear us
climb the hill
down the dirt road
where the best blueberry bushes
hide inside a quiet thicket of green
berries dreaming dark blue dreams
beneath the summer sun who bathes
us all—berry, bee, bear, berry pickers
warming us all to sweetness.
Blueberries
Spring Mud
Last of the school year
oozes by, spring mud
warm and slow every moment
catches and slows
world blossoming
outside the sealed windows,
while we grade essays
give tests
attend meetings
more meetings
say our goodbyes
waltzes play in the background
measured music
for the mudstuck
wading, all wading
towards the flash flood
of graduation
to wash us unprepared
so sudden after all the buildup
some of us still clutch
red pens, books of sonnets.
Come Back As Orange Poppies
To All The Women I Know,
If we come back,
Consider returning as poppies
Bright orange and loose
Inside your magnificent skin
Like women in paintings
By an old master— Manet
Maybe or maybe it’s Renoir
Who painted those women,
The ones who said Yes to
A second piece of cake, a third
And licked the frosting
As they reveled
In their silken selves, even when
The artist turned away and
Those women could break pose
Luxurious, languid stretch that
I would wish for all of you
As if we were a field of
Orange poppies in the sun.
Another Poem Already Written By The World
Yesterday, Chester Nez died—the last Navajo Code Talker.
As a child, he was told to
Forget. Forget your language.
He did not.
As a man, he was asked
Can you remember?
Remember your beautiful language,
the language nobody knows?
Once remembered, can you weave it
Word by word into a code?
Can you do this despite the noise
of all those ghosts
murmuring in their many languages
who follow you everywhere?
Can you save us with language?
Will you? Yes, he said,
Yes.
Phoning It In
Teenagers, late spring
hauling bodies to school
and not much else
Spirits effervesced through
the acoustic tile ceilings
Minds napping
Souls already far away
from high school—
wandering deserts,
fast food franchises,
leafy college campuses
Their only visible move
those busy texting thumbs
sending the only explanation
They can offer,
one common Message
from every phone
over and over:
I am
Out of Here.
Good Will
Today, to the bags of clothes
to give away
along with all
we’ve outgrown
or never wear
added the ghost of what was
(shaped as a wedding dress, all lace)
lifted it from its haunt
on the closet shelf
sad and relieved
to say goodbye.
On Turning Twenty
You,
one of the two
best things
I ever made,
will spend today
fishing
in a sparkling lake
on a sunny day
basking in this
green and perfect present—
your happy life.
Summer In The Wings
Summer is backstage, running her lines
till her big scene, the one with fireworks.
Or, a different rumor,
Summer is stuck in traffic, flipping the radio
dial, Ray-Bans on, searching for an oldies station.
Or she is perched on a chair
in a waiting room, listening
to the clock tick on the wall
thumbing through year-old magazines
as she jots down recipes for
grilled shrimp, watermelon ice,
strawberry lemonade.
Wherever she is,
Summer is tapping her bare foot
sick of being patient
sick of taking turns.
Her bags are packed, full of picnics
and sunscreen, ditch lilies, ice cream,
concerts on the lawn.
Ready.
Wildlife Rehabilitation
Experts, disembodied voices,
Gave guidance by the net full.
Once netted, never let go.
That was one rule
We let go
in there among the
tangle of limb and feather
In there, the overgrown vines
In there, the cages
In there, the promise of a pond
In there, the do-gooders and their nets
In there, this abandoned nest
Of shell and feathers
Caught on the knotted collision
Of plans, opinions, and
Men of Action.
It does these wild lives
No good at all
That we meant well.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 