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.

ROTHKO'S EYES

I cannot entertain this truth

as being someone else’s.

I envision Cassandra

reaching out in her last moment,

retching 
from the stench of truth

And it is me.

I think of Iphigenia 
on that alter stone,

eyes gazing up at father’s

And it is me.

I watch with inward eye

as Clytemnestra plots Agamemnon’s death:

bath drawn,

knife stealthily concealed

And it is me.

“ROTHKO!” 

I shout, gazing on the Eagle.

And agonize,

conceiving corpses

cold before my coil was formed,

And It Is ME.

*The artist Mark Rothko’s

“Omen of The Eagle” was his response

to “The Orestia.” I offer this feminist

response to both works.

ANNA'S LAST WALTZ

She danced in the air,

a mote in the gaslight

soft 

     and fragile,

her moment over 

too soon.

When she thought

of him

It was with a longing

for moments lost,

For a dance never

fully engaged in.

Raw silk

chafed at her neck,

this would be her last waltz.

One danced alone.

Her feet 

never touching the
cold, grey
cement  floor

Once the chair

was kicked aside

And all of her sadness

evaporated,

A mote in the gaslight.

PORTLAND VIGNETTE

That night she watched as snow fell against the branches of the evergreen -- large, silent drops, cool and white drifting at its base. And the bamboo, soft and gentle dancing in the wind.

It was so beautiful, the way its shadows lay against the snow.

Sighing, she let the curtain drop as she drew her comforter from the chair.

Come July, she thought, the sun will warm me by the water and perhaps someone with a dog will be by my side to laugh and rest and dream with me.

Pushing the cap back from his face, he leaned forward and stoked the fire. 

For an instant he thought he caught the image of a woman flickering like sunlight on a mountain stream.

Come July, he thought, I’ll laugh with that woman by my side.

When they met each other at the new restaurant on The Willamette that Friday afternoon, they smiled and wondered if this could be the July they’d dreamt about that winter.