I dreamed I told you everything, that I laid it out in logic and compassion. In my dream you understood me perfectly. When I woke up, though, I was alone. And I had not yet said a word of what I meant.

Under your thumb,
wrapped around your finger.
Not because you want it that way but
because you thought it would be safer
because they said so;

Nape grazed by knuckles
it’s colder than you expect
under a street lamp and
worse, the darkness between street lamps

footsteps behind you

Where are you going with this?
You just want to go home.

Sweaty leather in your palm –
a trip you took once, a souvenir
of a place you wanted to go so much
you didn’t mind when you got somewhere else.
Remember that, remember how that felt.

Teeth cutting into your skin; why?
Maybe there are no footsteps,
maybe everything echoes in your head,
maybe what unlocks your secrets
can’t also be what shields them.

No one thing is enough;
nothing is enough.
Do you hold the keys or
are you grasping at straws?
After this we can talk about "clutch".

All landscapes look like a woman.
The wood has faces and faces in it;
the faces make you behave, try not to steal
remember to wash your hands.
And the woman is reclining,
waiting in the snow for you
or the warm desert sands will blow away
and she’ll be there
waiting, she’s not impatient
but don’t for a minute think she’s not there.
Or that the faces aren’t watching.
See that one? Looking right at you.

Oh and you, with your dangerous mouth.
I cannot even think the color of your eyes,
but your exact mouth better than first fruit
and I cannot imagine anything else.                      

I would have kissed you for a thousand nights,
a thousand and one.
Your mouth the only thing
to make me stop telling stories,
and we knew that to stop telling stories
meant my destruction; I didn’t care.                  

Your mouth with its clever tricks
even clever deceptions and when you whispered
that you missed me I wondered
if it was true or
just a slip of the tongue.

This one is like
nobody you’ve ever met,
She is not like you.
The music she likes is music
you’ve never heard of,
The books she likes are books
you’ve never read.

She goes to parties
and talks to nobody

seeing everybody talking,
Or holds forth on topics
til there are no topics left.

Her hair was wild until everybody’s was,
then hers was wilder;
shorter the year they were wearing it short;
she’s paying attention
to ensure she never fits.

She has nothing in common with you.
Nothing at all, to be sure, to be sure.
This girl is a bore.

The foundation cracked about twenty years ago
you poured in some dead rabbits and kept building
a roof over your head because Maslow said to;
and other things, important:
Insulation against the extremes and
windows for looking out.

You laid a floating floor over the cracked base
you have done a good job of covering that up
it is not perfect but it is level as your gaze.
Sometimes it creaks a bit, maybe, or maybe

only you hear that.

Some years ago you put in a door,
decided people could visit,
held some dance parties
broken glass and everybody
has a good time

But sometimes you think about that foundation
–step on a crack, break your mother’s–
and you think about danger,
what if it all crashes down,

what if it folds in over you and anyone
with you when it happens.
What then.

Is there insurance to cover your contingencies
is there a way to repair damage
without tearing it all down

is there a point, in short, to sitting here,
after dark, listening to the creak that
maybe only you hear, after all.

Anemone, you told me, and then
hyacinth, orchid, peony;
like any parent you wanted me to know the names
of things; to be informed.
"Flowers!" I answered, bored.
I was more interested in
the holes left by my ruthless bouquets.
Already I was not meant for your world.

We can blame the man, because it’s easy.
Who doesn’t blame men, wanting more than they deserve:
wanting something bright against their endless darkness
a pretty girl with a wilted bunch of flowers;
wanting for a moment to put out his hand
and touch something that didn’t belong to him.

But I also took what didn’t belong to me.
I wasn’t hungry and I wasn’t really curious and
I wasn’t even exactly bored.
I tasted the bitter red juice and
I was fiercely happy.
I still am.

Mother! to the extent I am responsible
for your unhappiness, I am sorry.
But you would not have wanted me in your world
always
you would not have wanted me to stay with you
anyway.

Lessons I learned in childhood
served me well though
the lesson taught
is not the one I took away.

Take for example
the forced intake of food
Poor Richard and

the starving children seated beside me
drooling over my Lima beans

This taught me
to feel guilty for not wanting;
and that sometimes it’s easier to do it
than think of the reasons you’d rather not;

a certain stoicism has seen me through
and when they ask
"Are you comfortable?"
I can convincingly say "it’s fine"
around a mouth of stringy asparagus
cold Brussels sprouts

Or for example

the allergy shots
the hours spent with ankles
wrapped around chair legs
waiting to see my reaction

This taught me
to sit still for hours;
and that to show a reaction
is the least desirable response;

a blank face to greet the worst news
and when they say
"I don’t…" or "I can’t…"
I don’t even blink, and if there is an inadvertent
tendency to red eyes, puffy skin, the
inability to breathe I’m not letting on.

after years of carrying this
"it’s not heavy, it’s bulky"
the climb inevitable
and the fall apparently certain

hitchcock filmed my nightmares
and greek myths dictated my burdens
and surely opera played a part

the hardest part of parenting
is not what you expected;
it is not what you didn’t expect;
it is that you get both together

the fear of edges and falling over
the overwhelming guilt for doing what i

always knew i would do

you can have help but you must
ask the right person
the precisely worded question
a verbal key in a maze of locks

after years of carrying this
surprise and expectation and

the constant fear of falling

every time you remember
"they look like big, good, strong hands"
you burst into tears. but they did
look like strong hands. they were.

she says
every day you promise me dinner
she says
every day you say it’s about what i want
she says
every day you make steak.
i’m vegetarian.

he says
i don’t mean you have to make it
i don’t mean i have to make it
i don’t care if we make it together
but i have to eat.

he says
she used to like to cook
i thought she liked to cook
she would say i love to watch you eat
there would be little garnishes on the plate
now there’s nothing.

she says,
he never told me when he was hungry
he never told me the food was good
he never said thank you
i stopped cooking.
he can get his own food, i don’t care.
i’m too tired to cook, she says, or worse:
i’m not hungry.

he stops at a subway on the way home
or mcdonald’s, and it’s not on the way home at all
out of the way and he hopes nobody sees his car
something quick, something to tide him over
and he comes home to responsibilities and anger
no dinner
and they sleep clutching the edges of the bed.

eventually he starts working late
ordering in or going out
and it’s not just for sustenence,
like he said it would be because he needed it
but one day he realizes he’s savoring the food
the textures, the colors, the smell
the way it makes him feel

she goes out with her friend
and starts talking about the meals he used to make for her
the effort he used to make,
the textures, the colors
her friend touches her hand, briefly, only
briefly, "i could cook that, i think."
and she’s hungry again, for the first time
in years.