a delightful place
finds us in the vastness
of the darkened sky:
the solitary architecture of the trees,
the changing coloration of the stars,
the twinkling of the lights,
the slender shape of my hips
with their complicated rigging
to which your body lends these
sometimes harmonious, lazy half-circles
from the palm of your hand, warm
and sometimes hidden,
to serve within my soul a taste,
but only just so,
for the man who of mysterious pleasure
in contemplating, while lying
on my bed and resting on his elbows
still has the strength of will
to know my desire.

BETTER BIRDS

There are birds on the bird feeder. And we are excited.

We have bought seed.

We have hung small houses made of plastic and large houses made of cedar from black metal poles with graceful arms that curve and swirl and twist.

We have read books. They have told us what to do.

We have seen a cardinal, bright red. And then a robin. And then more robins. And then doves and then more doves and then blue jays.

We have put seed on the sidewalk for the cardinals and thrown our strawberry tops into the grass for the catbirds and we have moved an antique cement bird bath just near it all. And we have waited patiently.

We have waited so patiently at the glass door. Then by the window in the living room and then too at the windows from the second floor looking down at the plastic feeders and the cedar feeders and the strawberry tops and the old cement bird bath sitting just near.

We have told each other: stop talking, be still, stop moving, sit down, I can't see.

We have put a plastic container meant to hold sandwiches in the bird bath because it holds water and the antique cement bird bath does not.

We have bought journals and drawn pictures of cardinals and blue jays and some bird we did not know that turned out to be a sparrow.

We have bought more books: books that identify the birds and books that make the songs of birds and books that tell how to attract more birds. Better birds.

We have wanted better birds.

We will always want

better birds.

There was something in the way she said it, when she said it, like she never really meant to say it and did so only by accident, some kind of accidental slip-of-the-tongue where she thought she was saying, "These enchiladas are really good," but instead she said, "I'm pregnant," and when she said it, felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth but at the same time felt her mouth fill with saliva as if she were holding a spoon full of peanut butter in her mouth.

She did not like the feeling.

Her pants were tight.

A waiter walked by and patted her on the shoulder, "Anything else amiga?"

Outside, a seagull landed on a black, wrought-iron table and flapped its wings.

Yes, she thought. I want to be an animal in the forest. Some sort of den-living, hibernating animal that doesn't have to ever say, "I'm pregnant," to anyone. But nothing scary or intimidating. A calm, peaceful, den-living hibernating animal that lived in the hard-to-reach polar regions and ate cranberries almost exclusively.

"I read somewhere that you can really only tell that a goat is pregnant in its final six weeks," she said.

He looked uncomfortable in a way that made her feel powerful.

"I bring you sweat tea," he said.

He ran away.

Other waiters looked from around the corner and spoke Spanish loudly.

They pointed. She looked away and pretended to be somewhere fun and exciting though she could not think of a particular fun and exciting place so she just thought the following thought over and over again: I am some place fun and exciting, I am some place fun and exciting.

The fun and exciting place never appeared as an image, only a concept.

She smiled to herself.

The waiter appeared with a sweat tea and handed her a straw from the pocket of his apron. There were now three on the table, all unwrapped and unused.

She thought of making a house of drinking straws. A conceptual house. She put the straws in her purse and left the table.

At the register she put twenty five cents in a box wrapped with Christmas paper and took a chocolate mint from an old ashtray converted to a candy dish.

The cashier looked at her blindly and punched numerical keys covered with dirty plastic.

Outside, the wind brushed her cheeks as she walked to the car.

The Number 3

The number 3 is either a complete idiot, or a genius.

The number 3 has either no control, not even a little, over my life, or is in complete control and makes me only feel as if I have some control because the number 3 has a great sense of humor and likes to jump my shit.

The number 3 is very shifty, I think.

The number 3 shared me a secret.

Did the number 3 mean to share me this secret? Or did the number 3 confuse my house with another? Because in this neighborhood they all pretty much look the same.

Brick veneer. Two story. White staircase leading to the front yard.

I can see how the number 3 might get confused.

And now I am worried. If the number 3 did not mean to share me this secret, and this is someone else's secret, not mine, will the number 3 take the secret away, or let me keep it.

I can take good care of the secret. I am older now.

I hope it stays.

EMPTY SOUP CAN

I want to live inside an empty soup, the label half-torn on the outside from cold rainwater.

I want the lip of the can to be rusty and sharp, so that people can't jump over the edge to steal my lawnmower or my mother's diamond engagement ring.

I want the inside to be fire retardant, but not fire-proof, because some things are meant to burn.

I want the inside to be just-small-and-quaint-enough to be not small and not quaint and the interior designed by someone famous for not being famous.

And if people walk by, not noticing the empty soup can in any particular fashion, smacking their heels upon the pavement in a click-clack fashion

and thinking of what they might have left unplugged or plugged, unplugged or plugged,

unplugged or dammittohellandbackagain

like a coffee pot,

or a laptop computer,

and then rushing home to find out which was it if either,

I will be happy.

I am doing much better now.

I am no longer angry.

I am no longer attached
to those things

that now are just memories
made of charcoal
and dust.

I am no longer a moose
walking clumsy.

It's been two weeks and three days since my house burned down.

In that time I have been to work three days.

I hate work. I hated it before the fire. And now it just takes the smallest thing to set me off. I fuss at the kids. Sit down. Stop talking. Stop looking at me. Stop breathing.

All I need is the smallest excuse to stay home.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe from thinking about thinking about the house and what I think I can still save.

I still think I can save things.

I hate the way people are looking at me at work.

"Look, it's her, the one who lost everything."

People ask me what size clothing I wear.

They ask what size my daughter wears.

I say, "We are fine, really."

But really, we are not.

She cries a lot, my daughter.

I have nightmares.

I have one pair of shoes.

She doesn't want to be left alone.

I don't want to be left alone.

Our little green house is gone.

I want to take her away somewhere.

Just anywhere else.

Where there is nothing to think about saving.

My House on Johnson Street

I started writing a poem.
This was two weeks ago exactly.
I thought of these words:
blue
apples
cement truck
and
sunshine.
I thought they were good enough words.
But not special enough words.
Not extraordinary enough words.
So I put blue, apples, cement truck and sunshine
in a suitcase in the attic of my
green house.
Then my green house caught fire
and burned to the ground
and took with it
the suitcase full of
blue
apples
cement truck
and sunshine.
For the last week, I have thought
of new words, but these new words
I can't share with you
because they are
not near as good enough as blue
not near as special enough as apples
and
not nearly as extraordinary enough as cement truck
as those words,
like sunshine,
burned in the black zippered suitcase
in the attic
of my green house
on Johnson Street.