Labor Day

It’s always been hot, that last
burning away of summer vacation,
luxuriating in late nights when no tomorrow
was a school day, talking on a phone, 
tethered to a wall, coiled cord stretched 
to a whisper, beneath the covers. 
Best friends dissecting conversations, 
eager to peel away naivete
and paint our lips with the pretense of cool,
which we confused with blasé,
because we cared so much, it hurt.

I remember that one year, invited to a picnic,
invited to belong, invited to play,
learning to throw a spiral, as though
I had ever touched a football before, keenly
aware that I was no longer on the outside
looking in, even glancing at the fence
as though I might see myself watching me.
We ran back and forth to catch the ball,
back and forth to the water fountains.

I remember feeling light, a hit of helium
in my lungs. Even the pretty blonde girls
were being kind. Even the boy with the dark curls,
the one whose name I was sure I would never forget,
sat with us on the bus, heading home, a miracle
to be so suddenly and completely cured of cooties.
I remember the sweat, trickling around my ears,
gathering in the band of my training bra,
gleeful to have been playing hard
after so many summers with nothing to do.

Ripening

I find a patch of roughness

at the ankle, like dried mud

the color of my own skin,

my own skin, dried and caked

like mud. I scrub with thumb and nail

flakes of my own flesh falling

to the floor, a buffet for mites.

I smell my fingertips - isn’t this

what we all do in secret, reveling

in the wonder of the olfactory self,

a fingerprint of scent, the partnership

of microscopic things that colonize me

and whatever is left that I think of

as myself. My ankles smoothed,

my fingers smell like mushrooms

and forest-floor. If a sommelier 

could taste me, words like 

earthy, oakey, and open 

might pour from his lips.

He might smile, enjoying the vintage,

the way that time softens sharp flavors,

creating depth. Can you tell,

I am a little bit in love

with the flesh of me? 

Funny, I didn’t know 

how delicious I would become 

as I ripen.

Scene from a Walk

How do I show you the second
my foot slips unexpectedly 
on the last wooden stair
at the end of the trail, 

unpolished, unvarnished.
The truth surprises me,
skating unseen dew
that fleeting flush, uh oh!

until the other foot drops
onto dry, gray earth,
dingy as over-processed hair.
You can see the dry cracked skin

of soil. You can see the dingy, 
once-white sneaker, dusted 
with miles of metered steps.
But, can you see that moment

when I haven’t yet righted myself?
Can you see that moment
when I still don’t know
if I will splay, skin abraded, 

tiny beads of blood staining 
this warm white shirt pulled fresh 
from the line? Can you see
the suddenly pounding pulse, the fear

of losing my balance, 
my strength, 
my youth, 
already receding like a hairline?

Bamboo Forest

The train from Tokyo launches us 

out of dense, dusty, concrete and neon,

beyond monuments to industry, glassed-in

smokers, chuffing tobacco. We flash 

past sprawl, snaking through acres 

of tiled roofs. Jet lagged, I close my eyes

against the too white skies blanketing the island,

tenting us in the warm, wet breath of monsoon, 

beads condensing in dark corners of the body.

The train vents a respite of dry, cool air,

comfortingly humming and rocking.

I am not the only one nodding off. 

Slipping in and out of dreams,

I awaken full stop at Kamakura Station.

The heavy air feels gentle here,

uncrowded even in the avenue 

lined with tourist-trinket stalls

packed wall-to-wall with bodies,

my friend and I, the only gaijin,

she, the only blonde in a sea of sleek, black locks.

We wander, awed with wonder, awake now,

wide eyed, the shrine before us, beckoning,

the pilgrims, bathed in incense, purified,

tying omikuji to a skein of blessings in full blossom.

Walking further, we enter a temple

of grass tall as trees, shoots emerging

from the earth like fence posts in reverse

driven upward as if called to kiss the sky.

We sip grassy tea beneath a tiled canopy,

breathing the earth’s exhalations, bathing

in the incense of purified air, watching

leaves slowly drifting downward, falling

at our feet like so many blessings.

Wild Century

---

In a recent issue of Poets and Writers magazine, I found a prompt to write about the wild centuries that have led me to this moment and where I see myself going from here. I had just been watching a documentary on the geological history of the planet. This poem is the child of the documentaries and the prompt.

---

We share a single-celled mother,

the first collection of atoms to exist

within a skin,

the first story, coded 

on a double helix strand,

giving way millennia later 

to every filament of hair

we share, the tight curls you wear,

the loose ones I bear. 

What a wild ride our forebears dared, 

at the brink of volcanic extinction,

again and again. The memory

of each almost-demise coded

in striations of rock,

Vesuvial ash, peppering the air

at Auschwitz and the ash now

that falls like summer snow

over the Sierras, blown to both coasts

and beyond, coals smoldering 

under Christmas snow like little cells,

dormant till spring rains run off

and the summer sun awakens 

these fragments of itself, 

eager to reclaim the carbon

stardust we are. 

What is there to do but meet

that heated persistence in kind?

I show up to each moment,

checking the weather, walking

forward when the air is clear

feeling the strength of my dear

body, propelling me, the skin of me

holding within, like you, like the trees

and salamanders, the code

of our dear, shared mother.

I am the earth, become conscious,

my understanding of ephemera 

nudging me to embrace, tenderly

this spare and fleeting moment

we have here, together.

Well Worn

Sheets, washed to the softness 

of newborn skin, a spin dry away

from threadbare, a tear 

where a kitten pounced 

in a basket of linen. 

I savor the sensation, 

my own skin gentled 

in this cocoon of cotton, 

this bed where I linger, 

watching shoulds float past 

like seeds of dandelion 

riding the wake of the sun.

My skin too grows thinner, 

softer, creasing, hair fading to grey. 

I linger in the bed of my body, 

loving the softness, 

loving the well worn fabric 

life has woven of me.

Cleaning Away the Guilt

My dear, beloved self, it is time now

for a gentle cleaning, to scrape away

the last bits of guilt and worry, calcified

on your lovely smile. Rinse and spit

the habit of self torture, that little tyrant

in your mind who still thinks she’s in charge

of saving the whole world 

one recyclable bag at a time,

if only she could remember 

what the numbers nestled in triangles signify.

Each day, you will have to brush and floss

the debris that comes of ingesting

other people’s distress, collective invective

as the infighting continues and we root canal

the planet for petroleum to forge plastic

to make toothbrush handles and child-proof

caps for all the pills we take to cope.

Ah, sigh. Even sob. Grief is welcome.

Like the sign in the consignment shop proclaims,

“New losses are arriving daily.”

It is time though, still, despite everything,

to practice letting go of the mess

you never set in motion. Take off the

chains. Put down the cat-o-nine

you once believed you needed

to keep you in line. Tend the earth

as you can. Marvel at the sunflowers

and buttercups offering themselves up

this day after Valentine’s Day.

Let them teach you to rest in the sun,

face upturned and bathed in light.

If this is the end, and of course, it is the end

of something, be done with squandering

the clear-air days on should-haves.

Go outside and play. See how the moss

is still so madly in love with the trees,

they can’t stop hugging. Snuggle into life,

wrap joy around your shoulders.

There will be time, in fire season,

to stay indoors and write your senators.

Tend the earth as you can, while letting go

lament. Eat an heirloom orange

wiping the juice from your chin

with the hem of your shirt,

and smile that gorgeous smile

smug in the knowledge that

you have used one less paper towel,

and that, for now anyway, is enough.