MY FATHER'S DAUGHTER

as my father’s daughter

I’m not myself

til I’ve walked around a bit

found trails

to the water

not told anyone

where I was going

and come back

on my own schedule

with a story to tell

ready to make a meal

MERMAIDS IN THE BASEMENT

after Carolyn Kizer and Emily Dickinson

300 miles from the sea

in this town I’m out of place –

a mermaid of crashing oceans,

a mermaid of the mountains,

a mermaid of rain on city streets

and a busy lake mermaid.

I have alternated.

there are other kinds out east –

mermaids in the fog across the wheatfields,

mermaids in the river winding through town,

mermaids in the waterfall behind the convention center,

mermaids in the basement of my shotgun house,

mermaids whistling from the teapot,

mermaids coming out of the faucet

and going into the garbage disposal,

mermaids coming out of their mother’s wombs

into the bath, into my hands, into a broken down

house with a pitbull out front and a kitten inside

gnawing on the edge a McDonalds cup,

mermaids in a brand new hot tub where I go

to soak my body when it aches from changing.

COMMUNION

the banana chips left over from

our broken hike

like communion wafers

when I eat them now

they are your body

stubborn and sweet
and almost saving me

MARTHA SAYS

Martha says

people do the best they can

and sometimes that’s really shitty

Martha says

I ferry love in and I ferry love out

Martha says

I look more like my mom every day

Martha says

you never stop missing your mom

and being sad on her birthday

MEN WRITING LETTERS

these are men

always on the verge

of explaining themselves

letters promised soon

and never arriving

when the moment’s too loaded

they promise letters

when they have to go away

they promise letters

when what we ask is something

without an answer

they promise letters

what are their lives like

so far away without us?

what do they do there

but write letters

that never come?

men writing letters

don’t want to be there

when we find out

tonight there was a man

digging a hole outside

to bury the dead

someday you will understand he said

I am writing you a letter

WHAT I WON'T BRING

2 of the 3 jumbo red suitcases

all my summer dresses and sandals

the journals I’ve kept since childhood

the high thread count sheets from Goodwill

the knockoff Pendleton blanket with a stain

the bras I’ve shrunk from in the past year

anything that requires mending to be worn outside the house

the short sea foam bath robe

the bright orange baseball cap

the sequined top I just bought at the Florida thrift shop

a box of baby clothes and toys

a box of my mother’s clothes I will never wear

a box of National Geographics for collaging

a box of oil paints, a cup of brushes

boxes and boxes of photo prints and slides

notebooks from every class I’ve ever taken

my postcard collection

my old eyeglasses

those chipped bowls from Paris I’ve been using for cat food

that geologic map of where I was born that I stole from the college library

the hello kitty suitcase full of scarves

all the pets buried in the backyard

all the sorrow I’ve collected for everything I’ve lost

any sense that if I lived better I would lose less

LET'S TALK ABOUT THE APOCALYPSE

I can feel the prime of my life coming,

rolling up the coast like a wave,

mistaken for an earthquake.

I want to drive down to meet it,

coax it along sooner to this sweet spot.

I want to run side by side with it,

so in sync a bird could loop our middle legs together

and it wouldn’t make a difference.

but there’s something I want to talk about first:

where will we meet when all else fails?

when streets crash apart and

phones are no longer potent

where can I find you?

EVERYTHING I LOVE IS BROKEN

I’ve laughed more and looked sadder every year

I haven’t felt tired til I’ve stopped dancing

and then I’ve been a deadweight

I’ve herded my family to the car

I’ve tugged my friends down the sidewalk

I’ve flown across countries at inopportune times

I’ve done whatever it takes to get home

and I’ve carried a rock in my pocket the whole time

I’ve cried at the beach, in the shower, on the bike

I’ve hidden in bed, in the trees, in plain sight

I’ve called and was never called back

and then I’ve called again

everything but the rock I’ve carried in my pocket

is broken

everything but the rock I’ve carried in my pocket

is jagged and awkward from where it broke

everything but the rock I’ve carried in my pocket

doesn’t know how to live in this world

doesn’t know where to sit at the party

doesn’t know what to say to relatives

doesn’t know when to say goodbye

I’ve split my face apart trying

and then I’ve refused to keep secrets

I’ve stayed when I could have left

I’ve picked things up when they weren’t mine

and put things down when they were

I’ve carried this rock in my pocket because I can’t change it

and I’ve never wanted to

for a long time now I’ve known

everything I love is broken
and I’ve just wanted to go home

HIDING FROM BILL

In the morning from bed

I hear his snores transition to grunts

and then the music comes on,

Jack Johnson or something at top volume.

Bill is singing along, stomping, dancing,

falling, chortling, yelling,

switching songs in the middle,

turning the volume up,

going back again,

breaking every rule in the book.

I stay in bed til noon

with the cat curled kitty-corner

from me, alone as we can get.

When I finally emerge

Bill catches me on the stairs with a question:

tomorrow morning can you please keep the music down?