Ice and Gaywings

We drive past Rib Mountain,
the highest in a flat state—

sometimes fog mists
its side. Or rain

makes it look like a dark
green ship. Today

the sun, a carpenter,
builds a gold room at the top.

originally appeared in Dogwood Journal (2005)

Sneeze, sit on the porch,
admire night’s black leotards
on a line. Irene’s
jukebox with “Sugar Shack,”
oh, Waupaca,

we could be happy together
but you refuse me,
the bachelor uncle
you never invite to reunions.

White steeple, white snow
on cornfields. Barn owls

tally up cow misdemeanors.
Cough and sniff

about how life isn’t fair anymore,
how strangers should keep to cities

and raise poverty.

originally appeared in Grain (1992)

What luck! I remembered to bring
my Herb Alpert CD—any road
is possible when horns

are feisty. If my car breaks down,
goldenrod might mug me. So what?
Here Earth likes to brag up some flower.

Live here? Are you kidding?
I can’t give myself completely
to oaks, wind, and fields.

Tomorrow I’ll be safe again
behind locks, telling stories
on the phone, spreading lies.

originally appeared in Wisconsin Academy Review (1989)

1.
A red doorway of leaves blows open
into a room filled with mourners.
I smell each blackened leaf:
I had forgotten it was September 30th.
His voice must be trapped in the stem
of this red one I put in my pocket.

2.
A few months ago the river was blue-brown.
My friend and I arrived
where lily pads sent white and yellow
blossoms up: floating gazebos. Minnows
tickled the backs of my knees.

The lilies have shriveled into old hands.
Brown water slides toward the city,
bearing acorns. Leaves drop off in wet arms.

3.
I leave the river, pass the junkyard
of apples fallen by the path. River
and leaves: I go to bed.
I hear it is good to mind your dreams.
Mine often smell of soil. I put
the red leaf under my pillow for luck.

Awake. A vase: hours breathe inside.
I can’t remember my dream. September
gold flowers fade as they open.

Moon on water. Dark birds
in bright trees. Monarchs head south.
Edges shift and disappear.

originally appeared in Folio (1987-1988)

Death hides in a corner,
won’t come when called.
Waiting to die for decades,
she wears gray dresses,
no pizazz. At 94 she curses
another day of tea
and horehound candy. In her
nursing home bed she looks
surprised, angry—death
sneaks up, cradles her, tries
to make everything all right.

originally appeared in Moonwort Review (2005)

Think of people who annoy you.

My neighbors keep
their German Shepherd out 24/7.
My boss fires my friends.
A snotty teller clucks when
I hand her a Canadian check.
Gnats

annoy.
When Stan and I walk in
the June woods, I tap dance,
slap, swat, finger-plug my ears,
rub dead gnats from my eyes.

They surround him. He says
I walk in a “cloud” of gnats.
A high-pitched buzz builds
till I break into

a run back to the cabin
where I wash my hair, black bodies
dotting a white sink—

the silence a relief,
quiet after mass murder.

originally appeared in Native West Press (2003)

Gaywings bloom in May and into June,
thin blossoms, shorter than an ankle—
they often call as we walk past. Soon
they’ll be fading—we’ll be back to fulltime
jobs. We bend, admire purple fire
burning between a damp maple leaf
and a fern. Looking pale, we’re shyer
than they. In a week, they’ll come to grief.

originally appeared in Brittle Star (2004)

In northern Wisconsin,
we expect to see pink

ladyslippers, but we’re early—
they’re tardy. We find

their favorite forests
but not a one. It’s like expecting

a loveletter from someone
you’re nuts about. The postman

brings only junk mail and bills.
Every day. You admit

no letter will come, mope.
Yet you keep looking.

originally appeared in Sea Change (2003)

In a small restaurant
we drink martinis. My dad
orders for all of us—
is this the fifties? No,

my parents enjoy you.
Back then few families
would laugh with a gay son
and his partner in public.
Some see the past
as a dozen white roses,
blue vase, sunny sill.

My past crashed
into a wall,
no helmet.

As we dig into dinners,
you point us to the window—
a hummingbird flitters
by a feeder,
flies off. You,

a lake that wind gently ripples.
Small waves, early soft
crimson water lilies open.

originally appeared in modern words (2004)

We walk around Shannon Lake
in spring. Everything smells wet,
and lazy afternoon light
makes us feel barely awake
till we pick up our pace, get
up close with flowers, the white
bunchberry, the cinnamon
fern under shade-spotty sun.

This lake lacks a dock, no sign
of people breaking up thin
waves with a horsepowered boat.
Alone: isn’t it so fine
to be together here, skin
tingling, no need of a coat?

originally appeared in One Trick Pony (2002)