The body is sublime in its mystery. No amount
of fruitless questioning wipes away the wonder
of ten toes and ten fingers, eyes round and blinking,
mouth suckling, small coughs and heavy sighs,
a ready human life, already stroked by DNA like Degas
gave grace to his dancers. The body
is sublime in its ability. To survive
and flourish, to love, and to recover
the wonder of seeing a belly near bursting
with jabbing elbows and round rump, a swath
of dark hair, wet from birth, so black almost blue
under light, stolen straight from a Starry Night.
The body is sublime in its capacity to love. One
and then another, all, now outside, circling in song,
like Picasso’s tribe, never alone when hands and fingers are
locked together like knots, when little arms wrap
around necks or thighs so tight it is like melding
back into One again, a mother’s moment
to be captured by Cassatt. The body is sublime
in its strength. Arms embrace each child, hold up
a world of hope–like Atlas’s own mother must, discard
old dreams with a toss, collect small joys like flowers
in a basket, soon overflowing with delicate petals of gold,
magenta and lapis, the rarest jewels cupped in hand,
cradled carefully, securely, because the body is sublime.
Category: poetry
Maybe
She only had one child because time ran out.
She only had one child because she had no time.
She only had one child because she feared what came next.
She only had one child because she feared she hadn’t enough love for more.
She only had one child because she feared she hadn’t enough love to start.
She only had one child because she didn’t know how she’d pay the bills.
She only had one child because one was all her money could buy.
She only had one child because one of herself was enough.
She only had one child because one was all her body could bear.
She only had one child so she could still hear herself think.
She had no children so she could hear herself think.
She had no children because even one was more than she could bear.
She had no children because her body would not bear even one.
She had no children because she couldn’t trust herself.
She had no children because the cost was too great.
She had no children because he chose to have none.
She had no children because she chose him instead.
She had no children because she didn’t meet him in time.
She had no children because she met her instead.
She had no children because there had never been the time.
She had many children because all she had had was time.
She had many children so she would have no time.
She had many children because they could afford many children.
She had many children because she’d been one of many children.
She had many children because she saw herself in each of them.
She had many children because her body bore the burden well.
She had many children because they required it.
She had many children because he required it.
She had many children because she imagined it would make him stay.
She had many children because she never imagined anything else.
Rough Patches
Alice Walker summoned
The kitchen erotica, sent us
Scurrying to cabinets for olive oil
To lubricate skin, scabs and scars.
My doctors erased mine with careful
Cuts and tucks like hospital corners,
skin kissing skin, hurts hidden.
In our kitchen, my husband
Slices into chicken, removes skin,
Cuts careful one-inch cubes. I do not
Handle raw meat. I slice cooked
Sausage at an angle, toss in olive oil
That splatters the thin skin
of my wrist. I tuck my hands
into fists. I do not own an apron.
My brother wore an apron. It read:
A Wolf in Chef’s Clothing.
He made spaghetti for Dad and me
On Sundays after church. He browned
Meat from the half-cow in our freezer.
It was his specialty, as were his biting
words that stung but left no marks.
Rough Drafts Only 