Three Poems

Migration
	    for Mimi
 
this march the barn swallows will return
packing their mud nest under the eaves
 
gold-chested they dash among the limbs
of an oak tree, fork tails splitting the sky
 
whistle & click their little song transports
me back to my grandmother’s backyard
 
filled with treasures, lawn ornaments that turn
in the breeze, painted tin statues & stained glass
 
each shape kaleidescoped onto the lawn
where I catch every color in my open hand
 
the many birdhouses that hang from branches
some propped up on poles or tied to the fence
 
she made a home of her home for back-alley
creatures, the clever tabby slipping into the yard
 
rubbing his face against her ankle, the midnight
screech-owl picking beetles from the damp soil
 
the opossum with babies holding tight to her
silvered back, there was no way for me to know
 
that my grandmother would take herself out
of this world – a creation in reverse, hushed
 
quickly away from all of us like flowers pressed
into a book because I still can’t bear to think
 
of her in early spring putting a finger on that
cold trigger while the swallows pulled themselves
 
mile after mile a thousand wings beating above
the endless waves breaking open across the gulf

***

You Can See it in the Roses

after crawling my way
through a string of college bars

in the pit of a Texas summer
I fell heavy on my bed

the night whirring silent
like a record after the final track

taste of mint liqueur still
sleeping on my tongue

I first heard it like a siren’s song
calling from the cabinet

an almost full bottle of pills
leftover from dental surgery

when they plucked out my molars
stubborn bone buried under flesh

I read somewhere they use forceps
the same tool for childbirth

pearly babies clinking
in a bright silver pan

but what’s left after healing –
only these chalky tablets

the squat orange bottle
singing its sour tune in my ear

down down one by one
they slipped into me

the doctor would later ask
why did you take all of them

circling in her white coat & me
dressed in a gown as if for baptism –

& hadn’t I been born once more?
emerging from the dark of a drug-induced

sleep my mother shaking me to life
as I whispered through the fog

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry
now the colored Dixie cup

of charcoal sludge working
its way down my throat like gravel

I don’t remember all the questions
just the way the hospital lights

made squares on the inside of my eyelids
& we’re not going to let you leave just yet

while I slept I dreamt of roses how
they plant the bushes in vineyards

bright punctuation at each end
delicate vine coiled with vine

the blooms will wither first
a canary in the coalmine

before the black rot
works its way to the grapes

it’s true no one saw the roses
sagging dark with ruin

each spoiled end of me
screaming its silent decay

& I didn’t know eight years
later my grandmother

would hear that same song
calling to her from the closet

the steel-gray body of a .38
and now I’m certain there are no

roses – there were never roses
just the naked fruit exposed

holding tight to the very
thing that kills it

***

Abecedarian for Year One
 
at midnight she ferried her way to us
bursting red-faced into my arms
count her fingers count her toes
do you feel the shift, the way
earth sings at her arrival
fixed upon my chest wingless
glimmering still from the journey
her quiet washes over me
incandescent our bodies burn
just as a candle lights another candle
kissing two flames into one
learning in this moment to live
mostly outside of myself
now the heart splits
one part is still mine and the other
patters through the house
quick feet of the toddler she is today
reaching out with her child’s hands
speaking her lyrical language
too many firsts & too many lasts
unsung are the many purple mornings
velvet head of hair in my lap
where like that first shared embrace
xanadu in its otherworldliness
you blazed your way here from the dark
zenith of my life, & my becoming