Meetings with light

I didn't think of loving you until I saw
you in a white shirt at a church concert, a Christmas concert where we were both ushers. It began, the concert, in darkness. Then candles entered, carried by men in robes--hooded silhouettes, chanting, and singing.
When the music ended (the space of two hours collapsed
to three or four words), everyone
was talking, laughing, putting on their coats, and you and I walked up to the Virgin
of Guadalupe, standing to left of the altar--her gold-leaf nimbus shining,
buckets of flowers around her feet. Roses and lilies for the most part, also
a few chrysanthemums. We looked at the flowers, at her anguished, patient face, and you told me
in Mexico her skin is darker, violence and passion
are closer--more blood, more faith. That night we said goodbye in the cold.
Days later, I arrived in Egypt--a place with high-rises growing out of sand,
freeway construction disturbing cemeteries. I did not fit in with the other Americans--putting my scarf over my head, pretending, quietly, I spoke French. One morning, I woke up as our boat passed through
the Aswan locks. After dressing by feel in the dark cabin, I went out to the deck, saw workers looking down from the catwalk crossing the dam--they whistled and pointed--but I turned
east to see the sun rising out of the river, over
a green valley and pale mountains--a familiar light on a stranger's face.

giving thanks

Every day is really this day--a day for giving out our gratitude freely.

I am thankful for the streets of trees turning gold and red; for the cold bite of the wind, while knowing it is five times colder in Minneapolis; for the wormhole in my heart--growing smaller and larger, both at once--for the spine that holds me straight before my computer in the evenings, and lets me stretch across my bike in the morning.
I give thanks to those who love me without reason, to those who leave without explanation, and to the kind solidity of a library book, a pumpkin pie, and a calendar to record the future in. And I give particular thanks today to the woman who writes "thankful thursdays", who's idea I respectfully beg, borrow, and steal.

water's logic

Have you ever been convicted

of a crime?  If yes, please

explain:

in the space of one line,         

they only leave you

one line.

The logic of water sweeps up behind, as I go on a mission of order, brushing salt

from the tablecloth, coffee stains from the counter, taking

smiles from stranger’s mouths—hope they don’t

fall apart too quickly

or come to nothing, and stay—glad to find it—

for a while. Sort the voices from the neighbor’s yard

into piles I’ll comb through later—plans

for the wedding, stones to make the path,

and cinder blocks

around the butterfly plant, keep it from being trampled.

So the fog returns, gray for yellow

and a sharper green

enjoys being muffled, drinking slowly from the plummet of sky—clouds burrowing into soil, roots

seeping quietly, moist,

unflowing ‘til it reaches

leaf or bud. A bee pollinates water, mist grows back

as hollyhock and sunflower.

When you feel you must move something heavy

to keep on breathing,

just watch the islands remain surrounded by the sea, ever encroaching, yet the waves do not pull

as much as the sand

gives way.

the wheel

In motion, there is a place to put my eyes, not a still point,
but a turning wheel--hub at the center where
you are, where I am--a wave of television music sliding across
my body as I sit beside my grandmother, and the ceiling fan
turns, dispersing smoke. And the people around me speak
in patterns where words recur again and again--a song
from the radio, a child's request for a glass of water, movie lines,
French textbook dialogue, the conversation in gestures
we continue to have, never the same, still every time
about love. About sleeping together with the window open, risking an embrace

thick as Minnesota summer, long as highways that keep pursuing the horizon--though your voice
can shake apart--"We should
(break up)"--and my heart shivers, aches--yet your hands pull me into
your chest so eagerly--you must long for me in the darkness, as I long.

With the hub at the center, I will not say
"yes"--trade one pain for another--an empty
palm for a closed fist. The wheel must turn, starting at the hub,
and at the place farthest from--no one moves alone--the pattern continues
somewhere else--and I say "please--don't give up--don't"--tears
come, always pass, leaving behind a smile, coffee grounds and laundry hanging in the sun, begin again, keep beginning.  I am with you, happy, and have ever been,
so fully--even tears, the grit of anger cannot efface
what our lips and eyes inscribe--say I love you, just say
I remain, turning.

"They also serve, who only stand and wait..."

I am waiting for within to join
without. Who is alone
intertwined in you, unable, unwilling to stop
coming, to untangle the urgency
of water--the stitches in his flannel shirt are wedded
to the Virgin of Guadalupe, and our first goodbye is tucked under
a conversation on scales, basted into
the moving darkness of cars--Mexican silver laced to a kiss--
our mouths meet over and over, teaching each other a thick, wet
language--tongues against teeth, submerging,
and escaping words--heart pooling up to lips. Only open again, and we are
bathed in one another--ripple flows into wave--I am movement
waiting. A desert river still seeks the ocean.