my sister held your hand as you drew
your last and told me
your touch faded
finger by finger
until only in
her pinkie
and then
gone
but
papa’
I feel you
differently
in dawn air drawn
into lungs newborn sky
strisce di bianco in un cielo azzurro
a flurry of sparrows rising into beech tree
and echoing your whistle il frischietto del cardinale


This poem was published by the League of Canadian Poets in Fresh Voices #27 in November, 2022.

​Leafless tree
Dressed in sparrows
At dawn.

​“You have a call from California, Frank.”
Kev didn’t know what it was all about
until he heard the whisper shift to shout:
“Pay for the funeral? What am I, a bank?”
He slammed down the receiver. “Well, she’s dead.”
What woman could have died that Frankie knew?
All his friends were men, and they were few.
“Someone I know?” Frank smirked, and shook his head.
“You never got that unlucky, doll,” he said.
“It was my ma.” His eye began to twitch.
“She dragged it out to ninety. Goddamn bitch.”
He stretched his shoes out on the king size bed.
 Turned on the TV – Oakland and LA.
“What a Jesus mess! What a fucking day.”

Dappled light bright, filters
through the warmth of day cools it’s back
sucks itself clean, spits out sunshine, queers itself
Whole.
 
The Gay Light of Spring.
The way I like men who wear skirts, best;
and long hair trailing soft,
whispering muscles against lace;
kilts to be exact.
Doing yoga on craggy rocks.
Atmosphere offers itself up,
opens to tendrils curling
around the ornate buttons on his velvet down jacket.
A fancy dandelion to blow my wishes on;
 and her hair, whizzing by.
All in one instant;
everything cascades in a cacophony of birds singing, insisting, spring
Is here.
Though the wet snow blankets everywhere;
the ducks are, in fact, waddling across the white lawn looking for grubs.
 
The ice that cracked through to more ice ,
Will,
melt.
Everything in its’ own time,
 
Spring;
 
                                                     and sorrow too.

​Glistening limestone
Crushed in modernity’s maw
Churned with 
sand that yearned to be glass
gravel that was born a mountain
Whisked with water, in which
trilobites trolled, that
quenched Antarctic deserts, and
washed away sins, now
Ignites a reaction
arresting dust to stone.
 
Glistening so--
it could be wet yet.
 
The bleached block beckons
My boot arcs through atmosphere
intent on testing new ground
I don’t know what to wish for
my sole soul vacillates--
Make your mark
Leave no trace
Make your mark
Leave no trace…
 
In the end, I laugh at my follied footfall
Destiny already declared
The sidewalk, already set.

(Puerto Vallarta - Febrero 2019)
 
beneath high-ceiling sepia traces
of decades of summer rain
 
behind drapes drawn heavy with dust
the velvet tatters of winter
 
from an antique framed mirror
she turns away at last
 
this white-haired woman, to hum
her comrade song into a silence frayed
by shimmering fractals of melody
 
her hibiscus-red silk housecoat
rumpled sheets on an unmade bed
 
midday coffee and bleak lament
for the last revolution lost
 
in a history of unnumbered pages
too many, or too few, to count

​In the apartment below, 
a cigarette burns. The world 
is a slow spin and we circle, 
 
searching for weakness, 
eat each other’s words for dinner, snack 
between meals. My teeth are always hungry.
 
I sliced the pineapple and you forgave me. 
Excuses run down our chins and still, 
we eat. 
 
The wind sends snow across the back alley, 
an unending game. This is your nightmare and I am 
the disaster. A cold snap descends 
 
and every time the door opens, the birds break 
and scatter. The temperature follows the sun and I inhale; smoke 
signals danger. 
 
Pineapple is trucked thousands of miles and we wrap memories 
around our tongues. How many times 
have we rolled the dice? There is one way to win, 
 
even if birds die, even if 
we eat poison and it drips down 
our chins. Let it slide like an apology.