I am a poet and writer currently living in Sierra Madre, CA; when I am not writing, I am teaching high school. Married with two pet birds, I am child-free by choice. My work has been published in Lynx magazine.
Nothing but the Blues
#1
His smoky voice curls
around the guitar wail
like a saxophone.
#2
I watch the sky when
the sun drops into the bay,
my back to the sphere.
#3
August blueberries
leave both tartness and sugar
on my waiting tongue.
#4
Seawater scents the
air as we peruse the face
of the drowned woman.
#5
He's out of town. I
go to bed early tonight -
the sheets are very cold.
Climbing Cerro San Luis
For A.F., 1910-1998
And J., her son
At teatime, the trees in Laguna Park were bare
with branches pointing
in the direction of God. We walked straight across the field
Following the path punched out by thousands of collegiate feet.
We came to the place where gate and sky were the same guardian
Protecting the beginning of the trail proper.
We turned and waved to the trees
beginning our ascent in obedience
To the suggestions given by their branches.
Seeking the Christmas tree as yet unlit
at the zenith of the hill, we left the family house behind.
Trading stories of Grandma's clean kitchen floor
Avoiding the look in your eyes
as you stared at the horizon
pretending not to notice Mom's offhand maneuver
into safer conversation.
Climbing without deliberation
we carried our frustration
at not knowing what to say
The ache throbbing with the memory
of the empty place at your daughter's wedding.
We climbed. Sparing an occasional glance
for the branches below, minute in the distance
reflected in the orchestration of memory
presented by Laguna Lake.
Your profile stood against the late afternoon light.
Your upright back still strong
your defiant stride questioning
the extent of silver in your once-black hair.
We continued on our way. The city power lines formed dragons
around the Christmas tree.
Other people spaced along the trail bore similar scars
of a failed final, or relationship, or religion;
Some were limbless in the way
of climbers seeking the return of memory or understanding.
We waited as you exchanged greetings with friends
marking your adjustment
to a new life in a new town
away from snow, away from scholarship,
away from husbandry
of a parent without the power to manipulate time and space.
We sought our prayers
at the top of the hill
listening to the hymn of power lines.
Approaching, we saw the lights
of the Christmas tree burst into dance,
Colors vehement against the incandescence of twilight.
I held your son's hand, watched you and Mom climb together
Silent in the manner of forty years of marriage.
We arrived. At the base of the Christmas tree
we dropped our burdens:
the grief of generations
the permanence of death
our vain attempt to dispel
the illusion and see beyond
to the place where Grandma gardens, Grandma cooks
Grandma talks, Grandma knows us again,
And we are there with her and the separation is only a paradox.
Turning, we surveyed San Luis Obispo
the sun falling into a ravenous field
behind your new neighborhood.
You pointed out the house;
We blew a kiss in its direction before separating to the compass points.
You at the east, staring into encroaching dusk
Mom at the west, searching for remnants of remembered light,
Your son and his wife at the north and south
our backs to the view, watching
your shoulders grown heavy with the lightness of loss.
Moving together, we surveyed the nadir
of our travels:
The Laguna Park trees indistinct from the gloom,
The branches puny in the distance
an arrangement of the breeze.
As we began our return hike, Mom and I hung behind.
I watched your profile blur in the murkiness,
Mistaking you for your son, and your son, for you,
Smearing the cheekbones inherited from your mother.