small fireflower glowing in the
center of a structure marked
by death, disease, decay – her
spirit like all great spirits
sustains, her music lifts like
all great music, resonates with
her gift, refrains that mark
with life, health, and momentary
wholeness, giving proceeds even
as so much is taken away
blond sukha, quiet joy of
endless summer romance with
a boy my dad called warped
(and he was, in the
best sense) gentle lost we
slept out in golden rooms
and silver fields, met his
hippie household down the road
he touched me in the morning,
then just walked away
panther woman with dark skinned
glare behind hair curtains – even
as a girl, she carried
ominous forces in her pelvis,
frightened lighter children with her
thunder stare and just the
smallest suggestion of a fist –
stereotype it is, but she
reached nobility for me just
by virtue of her savagery
cousin dan the garbage man
a silly rhyme defined a
phony future, hands much too
delicate for that – now my
fiction is: designer, skier, beach
boy who found mountains safer,
married, dinks in minks who
never have to hide their
toys like we did when
our cousins came to visit
foxy little kid who sat
in front of me – our
desks arrayed in rows, our
last names started with “F” –
got to know his dirty
ears, his freckled neck, his
ferret nose, enjoyed his sly
ways, funny alliterative name,
how he could sneak into the
hen house and steal eggs
china blue eyed pretty grandma
walks the beach with her
beloved Cookie – mermaid crone who
clears the tangled seaweed from
past storms, picks up shells
and treasure, brings home words
and photos from her many
ports of call – I read her
Sacred Ordinary often and
wish her peace, rest, hope
oh my gosh he’s still
there on the banks of
Omak Creek still married to
his Indian princess he’s settled
there one who was so
alienated at the mission
one with whom I sat one
winter night in Indiana on
the swings in smoking silence
now he has a home