Green Lake

a sweet frozen Mr. Freezie
it's thick syrupy pink sugar water
dripping ice down my chin
on a sweltering day in August

in the back of my dad's 1977 crew cab Ford
sitting next to the chainsaw parts
and grease stained wrenches
sucking down the cool treat with birch trees rushing by

we're heading to the lake
so deep and green a summer excursion
towels in my mother's plastic laundry basket
and her long brown hair whipping in the wind from the open window

I wipe the pink sticky residue from my fingers onto my cut-off shorts
my brothers engaged in a game of name-that-old-car with my dad
my bathing suit sits close to my chubby young skin under my clothes
as I squish a blood filled mosquito against the truck window
leaving a red streak in the glass

my mother says she remembers this place from her childhood
when there were no city people's vacation homes on every beach
and you could swim naked with no one for miles around
she tells us the story of Scrooge pushing uncle Pete out of the tree
on a summer night at a bonfire party of her younger days

then there's the story of uncle Pete gone missing at another party
and the couch strapped to the flatbed truck
only after they drove all the way home from the lake
did they find a drunk uncle Pete passed out on the couch
miraculous that he had not fallen off on the long ride back

the lake comes into view around the bend of the road kicking up dust
a cool breeze rustling the long stands of leafy trees
my father rolls the giant Skidder innertube down the beach
and it splashes into the water flopping on its side
it's so big it can hold me and both of my brothers as we paddle from shore

only when I am standing chest deep in the warm water
watching my mom and dad dive from the boat dock
and my brothers wading out to the deep
could I look at the blue sky touching the fir trees in the distance
and think that those sweltering summers would go on and on forever

Moss

bowing lupine
each little floral eye
blinking at me in the breeze

moss underfoot
so soft like the floor of the world
is carpeted in green

near this clear stream
a black dog ducking through the underbrush
quickly leaping the fence

races for me
he lulls his tongue at me
and buries his head in my lap

the fir boughs
dappling the sun
in the arms of this crooked tree
growing for the sky

my secret forest
behind the public park
the trail hidden by brambling bushes

my secret tree
each trail navigated barefoot
knee deep in the cool creek

I stretch my arms out
feel the wind ease past me
these forests grow within me

black dog with blackest eyes
ruff of fur under my hand
my thick thighs and young flesh
scratches from the wild roses

and each thorn grows in my heart
each branch broken by bent passing
that black tail disappearing into the bushes

all a fading youth
in eyes of concrete gray
and northern stars on my shoulder

when they finally find me
I'll tell them
I just want to go home

Apache Skin

thinning lover
patches of Apache skin
dark and light
near the gates long rusted

these drowning gates
to which you wade
eyes closed
skin drawn tight

fearing me
rabbit fence touch
swimming through tall grass
home in rotting boards
and sweltering eyes

stairway to emptiness
dear empty house
haunted
with breathing flesh

hunched over figure
in the doorway
two glowing points
and malicious intent

I am coming for you
Apache skin
tip and tap
tap and tip
hold your breath 

I am restless
outside
tree skin
pressing sky
kisses in the mud

the house on fire
a room full of panicked siblings
an old man frowning
flames reflected in dark water
and darker soot smudged skin

Apache
with all the golden fields
dark haired children
running ghosts down the hills

far off laugh
where the bodies were buried
when the smallpox hit
buried them all with your own hand

and the mules died
outside this very home
old hands
switching lights off
and frowning out the window

no stranger
than stranger skin
those gaslight eyes
in my dreams tonight

clodding steps
on empty stairs
walls open to little children
ghost trains in the starless night

and fingers on Apache skin
come up cold
with bone turned to ash
when the moon sings her waning song

The Blood of the Morning

the pool deepened under me
as the sun
fractured the water
into dark depths of filmy
rakish shadows

I saw gleaming
to the edge of dawn
the blood of the morning
splitting the sky in two
and the water slipped
up my neck and into my mouth

clear coldness crept
shivering fingers
to the outline of my bones
and little ripples
waved around me
with my name slowly ebbing away

I shook my legs heavy
splashed my face
frigid to the rays
of golden headed raptures
down the all too clear skies
to the droplets glistening
in my floating nest of dark hair

silence
all mine
to tree lined shores

not a whisper
to corrupt
a break in the tidal flow
of purple star fish
and chirping shatter bird
high above the cliffs
and far from clattering
pebbled beaches

the waves reached
and flung their little rounded bodies
back
and I could hear the sound
as if a hundred little stone fingers
scrapping the sandy floor

only watered downed wood
will know my passing
a gentle slipping
through the water
my languid eyes open
to a polished depths

where they are
acrobats
of bug catchers
with glistening rainbow scales in the new day sun
flung to the heavens
like an arcing glitter to velvet dappled wings

and when skin is a fleshed pink
to the violet hue
of lapping
with tongue and gentle limb
though fluid in touch
and sliding between waves

I will find that rocky shore
with barest of foot
and nakedest of skin
dripping
a blushing shade of
my innocence
to the tilting sentience of emerald trees
akin to this my pastoral place of home
soaked with water-smoothed body and bone
in the long sandy line of the crystaled shimmering dawn

When You Come Around

love can be molded with nips of teeth
against gentle pink skin
in secreted smile
and long distance phone calls

you can be a bird
and wish for cannon balls

or you can be stuck where you are
standing in the shower
with your hands below your waist

you can laugh until you fall off the couch
heavy lidded
inhaling sticky sweet drugs down into your lungs

or you can be a bug
under the floorboards
scurrying from fat cat paws

love can be a warm bed
a warmer body
and clean sheets crisp against the night air

you can whirl around the dance floor
pushing the grabbing hands away
and billowing up to the sparkling lights

faces can be video lines
lips parted to a glowing 'o'
we can be naked
to the gentle blue flickering
of another day in TV static

o' hands of mine
be swift in time
and I shall lay my head
at your feet

with heavy breasts
and your name tattooed on my hips
I will be waiting
for the day when you come around

Bed-Bugged

I would not suggest to you
an extended vacation in my bed

for I toss and I turn
and I find myself uncomfortable
all the night long

I really am
a terrible bet
and a bear in the morning

do not dip your hand
below my waistband
in an attempt
at playful dawn reforestations

I might take it upon myself to bite you
to nip at your fingers
until you shriek
and take your hand back from me

I have sharp teeth
and I enjoy the taste of fingerprints

I am not particularly fond of your morning halitosis
I prefer to keep all the blankets to myself
your breath is making my neck hot
and I want my pillow back

no matter where I plan my legs
yours seem to be a tangle in the way
my arm has gone to sleep
while I plot my revenge with my own pins and needles

you are on my hair again
as you latch your hands onto my breasts
I am rolling and rolling and have nearly
rolled clean off the bed

I wish you would stop trying to sleep on top of me
didn't you read the sign on the way in
written in bold letters above the doorway?
It states my positions quite clearly:

"Don't Plan On Long Stays,
Please Depart With A Minimal Amount of Fuss,
You See, I'm Trying To Sleep,
And In All Actuality I Probably Hate Your Guts."

St. Paul

with soft soled scuffing down long halls
of ancient linoleum
over cracked and splitting lines
they stream past in soft pastels
with their disinfected smiles

I sit wringing my wrists
against the plastic placard in my hand
wondering if it will hurt this time
if it will work this time

the room is silent
sterile
they have moved it down the hall
but it is much the same
a table covered in white paper
as white as paper cranes
with stirrups that never ride anywhere
with my knees up in the air

I disrobe quietly as the nurse
busies herself with tubes and little vials
of treatment bought wholesale for times like this
I can hear the doctor in the authority of textbooks
speaking quickly in the back room
in a long diatribe of prescription and diagnosis
to a panel of white coats and greying hair

she leans over me
implements in hand
gentle smile in place
she tells me to scoot up a little closer
now breathe in
now breath out
just a little pinch
keep breathing

and its done
see that wasn't so bad
and it repeats
over and over again
day after week
week after month
maybe for the rest of my life

every time I walk down the cheerfully painted halls
covering up nearly a century of illness and habitied nuns
I pass the Pope staring at me,
with disapproving eyes
and a near-sneer upon his lips,
from his gilded golden frame
outside the wooden room
where I see the truly mournful
crouch over softly uttered prayers

as I make my way to the archaic creaking elevator
with a secret pain deeply hidden in my body
I fear not painful death like those humped over
the priest's soft words
spoken before uncomfortable chairs
and doubled-over bodies

I fear instead pain for endlessly stretching days
I fear this uncomfortable feeling between my legs
this uncomfortable walk through these sterile halls
I fear never letting someone enter me again
who doesn't have a needle in her hand
and a relenting worried smile on her face
I fear the day they tell me it will not get better

and once outside I let the wind take my hair
I let the pain settle inside me
I watch the trees sway to rust coloured bricks
and oblivious faces streaming past
the girl with unwashed hair
and pale ghost-like skin
just outside the hospital door
with a cigarette in her hand
huddled next to her I.V. tower
Cinderella coughing up bile in a blue robe

I turn from her
pull my collar close to my cheeks
allow myself to be swallowed by the moving throng
of glassy eyes
and bodies pretending at health
and I follow the wind home
with visions of immortal nuns in my head
with careful smiles upon their faces
and careful needles in their hands
forever floating before my open legs