balasana (child’s pose)

she carries it in her hips:

an emotion

a longing the length unfurled
of the lined rings in sequoias

she carries it
with his intent
(sometimes
without permission)
in between

and through her lovers,
she carries it further
(sometimes her lover,
she carries it, too)
and resists that it sag down
or topple out

she notices it
when walking,
stubborn and obese
by the way others call out
and stalk or gaze
and fade away

sometimes she drags it
through
the largest widening
making room for
another in pain

she carries it
in a baby’s cry,
feels it against
her babe’s thighs

she carries it
whether she is called
mom or jane or
any self-given name

and it only rests
knees to chest
in the privacy
of the couch corner
or the bathroom sink

it funnels
to the crease of the paused book
when she’s done
being a woman for the day

when she can release
it,
shrinking slender into
the not-so-heavy
flanks of a girl

even alone,
what a woman carries
is not only hers

but of everyone she loved
and looked at
that day, that year
in all times, both
in fruitful deliverings
and arrivals unheard

white hearses

I’ve reverted and regressed
into the high school sweetheart,
warped in borrowed clothes
drowning in the verses

I know this song! it’s the indent
in bed where strangers have slept together
for years, I know this one well
and it’s not for me

once upon a starry day
the sunset flecks have returned to his eyes
open wide ahhhhh there is the love,
but I wasn’t sick enough to catch it

boyish foolish you finding gold
in my snuff and snot, and roses
in my insults

I’ve reverted and regressed
to the all-searching searcher,
forgot my bloodhound in her cage
so I ponder the scent alone

and the far off whisk of death
I want to climb this precipice first and yet,
the white hearses are still coming for me

our secret has been whispered
tapestries have been weaved in your memory
the cattails have swayed,
and so have I

growing pains

you miss when things seemed breezy,
when tomorrow existed
and it didn’t matter when fruition came,
if momma would give you ice cream before bed,
if sally or tod held your hand,
if the day came when they didn’t laugh at your love notes
when poems were just for fun.

in adulthood,
every move makes every part sore –
it takes the soul out,
it stones the malleable mind.
ice cream is forbidden,
love is real and unforgiving,
poems are for the off-the-rocker types
or losers with no jobs.

what’s the point, is the constant wonder,
when there are arrows everywhere,
lines to sign, time to hand over
to clerks and suited people
who tell you what you need.

I think sometimes I pass on by,
unacknowledged and cliche with ignorance.
I look at the trees and the ground
with scrutiny, here’s what really matters,
and I trip into it, I bellyflop and the dirt
opens and mummifies me
for a moment of release —

my head clouds with vignettes
of kids lying in grass, their gazes held
by shapes in the atmosphere;
I’m somewhere in the between –
a bird falling like an ax,
a plane defying sense –
things that can’t decide
if they should die or
keep floating, evading
the solid ground where all things go
eventually.