(Untitled)

It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging. -- Henry David Thoreau


I rescued a speck floating in tepid water, black
among dying soap bubbles, and set it on the floor
Later it rose from the tiles to make a web

between the toilet and the bathroom sink
I didn't see it move again until the invasion --
I felt like Thoreau at Walden pond watching ants

crawl up the walls and over my toothpaste,
in and out of the drain and under the faucet
One ventured over the marble edge and fell

onto the sticky masterpiece below, body suspended,
flailing, frantic, prepared to fight
till the sun went down, or life went out

Even after being entirely wrapped in web
the tiny mummy body continued to twitch

All I Know

I can't breathe, he says, I can't breathe, and I say, let's get out of the car, because I think fresh air might help and I say it so calm - like I am an expert on these things - but my mind is racing and underneath the street lamp his eyes are so big and so scared I hope I can believe my own facade. What's happening, he wants to know, and I don't know; all I know is sometimes it just hits, like the time you were sitting in the bathtub watching your distorted brass reflection in the faucet, mouth opening to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow, when the words don't come and your face scrunches up real tight, contorted, before everything breaks. . .the world drops beneath your feet and all you can do is clutch the side of the tub and pull on your hair and cry.
All this gasping and sobbing, he is getting dizzy, so we sit on the grass and I want to tell him that sometimes you just have to cry until you're too tired to cry any more; you just lay naked and cold on the shower floor listening to the ugly suction of water down the drain, wondering if your sisters heard you through the wall, like I wonder if these people even know we are out on their lawn next to the mailbox.

Raking

Everything
red, yellow, orange
and purple bites
at the grassy edge and runs off
onto a white page sky by the wind's hand.
The colors smell like dirt
and earthworms when we collect them
into piles where they shiver, huddled
together, waiting for that chance
to break away from the ground's
oppressive hold, to pierce the air, to
puncture sunlight with serrated edges,
to avoid the inevitable brown death,
the seasonal genocide,
that awaits them
around the corner
of next week.

Acrostic for a Duck

Holden ate every last spilled pellet
Off the ground 'til his chest hung
Low and bloated like a bullfrog stuck
in a
Deep-throated croak. He tried to walk, waddled
Even, to the water tub where he spent the rest
of the day, floating,
Neck spasms interrupting his compulsive drinking.

Portrait of a House

I should show you the spooky house
you say. And you do. Eleven o'clock at night,
car window rolled down, I shrink in the passenger seat
from whatever spooks and haunts might come flying
out of the black box in the trees.
But none do and as we drive away you ask
if I can feel the sadness too. We come back
the next day when the sun is out,
hood popped up alongside the road
to give any passersby a reason. Ignoring
the NO TRESPASSING sign and the feeble
lone board across the doorway, I take pictures
of shattered debris on a moss-rugged porch
and empty rooms with rotting walls
draped in bird and bat droppings. But you think
the best part is the iridescent shingles shining pink
and purple and green through leafy shadows -
a trait my C-41 Kodak film can't appreciate.
The house is like a little old man on a rocking chair
of earth, without a family and no health care,
only gap-toothed windows, sagging stairs, and
thinning floorboards. I doubt it's very old -
a tarot card found in the front yard
says 1978 - but no one is there,
so I make sure to close the door when we leave,
wrapping the twine handle around a nail, taking one
last picture before we go.