DIFFICULT KNOWLEDGE

Its in my mind,

sizzles in my brain.

I must set it free,

set  it on the page

where others can see

I know many will shun it,

turn away with a sigh

“Ah, she has issues”

But it lingers,

inside

Then
Escapes. 

A SHERPA WIFE

She was Khadeu,

had married down to be with him.

But as a Sherpa guide,

he had brought wealth to their home

and their clan.

Rugs of splendid colors

adorned their sleeping plank and floor.

Butter, milk and curd cheese

graced their table.

She was proud to bear his son,

a boy of squat stature and dark eyes,

like his father,

who would surely bring a Khadeu girl with child

into their home as bride.

Yet when he made the trek 

to The Mother of The Wold,

called Everest by the foreigners

who lined his palm with many coins

she visited the Shaman,

asking her to speak the words of

The Mother

to share the mountain's deepest thoughts

on how she would deal with her children

as they ascended her crags and rises,

moving toward her peak

fixing ropes and setting camps

for the pseudo-Hillarys,

who though 4,000 had gone before them

longed to add their names to those who

had conquered The Mother.

At the festival of Dumje,

had she not danced and sung

The Mother's virtures?

Had she not drank the strong liquor

celebrating for prosperity, good health

and general welfare of her community?

Yet here she was,

boy-child by her side,

waiting for the 49th day when her husband's

soul could depart their home.

The Lama had cut a lock of her

husband's hair

so the breath of life might leave his body,

But his soul could not depart

until the 49th day after his death.

"Mother of The World,"

Why did you bury him

and the 12 others in that 

glacial grave?

Did I not do all a righteous

Sherpa wife should?

Did I not sing in Sherpali,

praising your ways?

Was that not enough?

THAT OLD TWO STEP

By the third one

She was numb.

Too many tangled,

“no, I don’t really love you’s”

caught up in her dreams.

Erotic arousal brings

visions of 

dismemberment

little feet and hands

that would never hold

a mother’s heart.

Heart? 

What is heart?

Eggs sizzle

in the pan

where once a soft,

moist kiss

bespoke of moments

lost.

“No, I did not love him.”

Safer not to love

‘till dismembered babies

enter the picture.

A saxophone somewhere

far off plays...

Baby, take my heart.

Baby, take my hand.

take me to the arcade

Baby make them eggs stop

sizzlin’ --

Make that pinball whirl end,

the arcade lights go dim,

Make this menstral trail

fill once again with life,

set aside the ache of life spent,

life lost,

Life -- that egg that sizzles,

never hatched.

SAHARA SUNRISE

This sand, 

it sears the flesh.

Abrasions form 

where once unblemished

cheeks shone bright

with hope.

This train, 

it moves so slow,

so achingly slow,

There seems no end

to this long ride.

Eyes grow opaque,

no images,

just searing wind

blowing glass-edged

grains that sear away

protective layers.

They seem endless,

these days of travel

to the mines.

They seem hollow,

vacant as the echos

of dreams once dreamt.

LIKE LOVE, LIKE ROBERT HASS

I am in love

with Robert Hass,

Fucking his woman 

in the ass,

sick of birth.

find anger there
that brings me peace,

like the succulent juices
of an o're ripe peach.

THE PROBLEM WITH WOMEN

Drink from this vessel

all ye who thirst,

For sustenance flows here.

Quench that thirst

that parches the soul.

Abandon reciprocating

with empty promises.

Fill this vessel to the brim

lest it wither 

like a haggard womb.

ON COMING HOME

 An exorcism has taken

  Place.

  This house no longer holds

  childhood’s fears.

  Gone is the wrestling

  of angst and anxiety

  Once borne in this child’s breast.

  She feels at peace, at rest,

  No need to flee,

  no restless urge to leave:

  

  Home at last.