3 poems

This is it –a match, wood, lit

the way a butterfly returns

by warming its wings wider 

and wider, one against the other

then waits for the gust to spew out

as smoke lifting you to the surface 

–this single match circling down

half on fire, half held close

is heating your grave, has roots 

–embrace it, become a flower

fondle the ashes word by word

that erupt from your mouth

as an old love song, a breeze

worn away by hills and the light

coming back then lying down.

*

It’s not the sink –what you hear

is the sun all night calling its mothers

though their embrace still arrives

as thirst and the morning –two stars

brighter and brighter till the sun

is born at the exact minute it needs

to bury its darkness in the fragrance

smoke gives off as clouds and the longing

for rain rising from the sea –you splash 

and between each finger its shadow 

begins to breathe, is hugging you

with the wet towel and its hidden body.

*
This cup listening for shells is filled

and emptied as if the waves inside

are making room for the slow, wide turn

that won’t let go –you drink from a spoon

dug in the way a fossil is pulled down

takes refuge as stone that falls by itself 

–arm over arm you cling to the side

not yet the rocks mourners will lure

as shoreline sweetened with sea grass.

and though the table is wood it’s trembling

circles down for smoke coming to life

where standing water should be.