Name your night I will find your favorite color in the sunset.
And I am not so mighty of a woman that
I could claim to cut a high
piece for your bedside
or keep any soft ray of it
in my hand safely, but I
would see you in this light for a moment:
let my eyes maze through its lines your lines
our lines, the cleanest shades of gray
pink lavender blue whale white falsetto,
wrapped around over under
its tired chest, and I will
memorize the sharp shape
of your face turned upward, the sky
smiling spineless on your gaze.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
He could live for weeks--months
on powdered gatorade and adrenaline.
I heard he built a truck, once, from the ground up,
out of things he found in the Pacific Northwest--
taught me how to drive a manual but my hands were too small
to grip the stick shift that was an evergreen or
ride out a clutch the size of Crater Lake.
I was frustrated but he read me my favorite story
for, like, the millionth time, sang me to sleep
and dreams of being a grown up.
Grayer now, weaver's hands, nurse's hands,
hands that built me a treehouse
move slower but, I suspect,
with more meaning--
weighted down by memories--
he finally begins his memoirs
but all I can read is
"Who says there are no heroes anymore?"