Holden

red fades into blue and

scales shine as he flashes

his fins and spins to face

the opposite direction,

fights a blank barrier he

cannot swim beyond-

where are the rice paddies, the shameless space

where his ancestors reveled?

he builds his bubble nest

as he breaches the surface

to breathe, but here there

are no fry, no females to fend off-

he looks at me to ask why.

i have no justification,

only a few crumbled flakes

in the stale water he abides-

he flashes his fins and spins to face

me. i am forgiven.

12 August: Before World Championships

Promised land, where dreams are big and hearts are bold.

August is unforgiving in Indiana,

hot like the breath of a panting dog,

and beads of sweat already roll

behind my uniform, navy pants

dissected by a gold stripe. Before we go on,

Nick will yell one more time to keep

the gold straight; but for now

we stand together, the long blue line,

hummingbirds perched in our hearts

here at the end- and the beginning.

Next to me, Jerry’s reflection

distorts in my trumpet bell

straight from the shower where

in between soap and shampoo

I’d slapped polish on and blown

water past sticking valves

so both the instrument and I

emerged shining, the labors

of our summer scrubbed away.

They give us the signal and

we breathe together,

push shared air through piping

and after eleven weeks

purifying in the furnace,

forged and re-forged as if

by a skilled smith’s steady hand,

it finally alters to become

gold, an invisible shimmer felt

best with eyes closed.

Lungs burn, capacity

reached emptied refilled

seeking each note’s unblemished

center, one voice

onehundredseventy voices

our voice.

Afterwards

I hold you like a stain, wine-red and spread

across my bed, name hidden on my lips,

soaked somewhere beneath my skin;

I never meant to let you in, misled

again, my loose lips sinking ships,

your voice the same wine: red, spreading

over my ears, well-remembered dread

capturing my  fragile bones. My fingertips

recall you soaked beneath my skin;

despite erasing every evidential shred

you left behind, the wake of your eclipse

holds me like a stain, wine-red and spreading

a blemish over every heartstring thread.

Shame remains your mark, nondescript,

soaked somewhere beneath my skin

and sinking into my bones, embedded

in the bruises on my wrists and hips.

So I hold you like a stain, a wine-red spread

soaked somewhere beneath my skin.

The Carpenter's Hand

The rain brought us

from underneath, and

he finds us in the morning

while playing behind l’ecole.

            “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

Inquisitive fingers pry

at the damp dirt around us, disturb

a gray-pink worm searching for a meal.

We watch grimy nails scrape

against glass and we wriggle,

eager to see le soleil for the first time.

Thirty years is a long time

to be in the dark.

We remember the day they buried us,

formaldehyde still stinging

our bleeding roots as they covered

our jar with dirt- une histoire triste.

Time crawls like winter underground.

He pulls us from our thoughts

and to the surface. He peers at us,

his smudged nose and

cornflower eyes grown wide- a mixture

of intrigue and disgust-

our liberator: beautiful.

He lifts us into the air,

blonde head tilted to watch

as we turn lazy circles. Our pale

flesh prickles, unaccustomed to

the luminosity of day.

His piping voice trills

the air and calls l’enseignant,

and tomorrow, we’ll be home.

This is the chanson du charpentier.

Full Fathom Five

Thy children lie, sunk on the ocean

bed, endless blue nights.

What will you discover?

You could not keep watch,

you did not hear.

It seems impossible, Mother.

It’s time to recharge, Mother-

it takes strength to fight an ocean.

Keep your honor here,

head high like Arthur’s knights.

The seconds stick on your watch,

moments you repeat and rediscover,

wondering if they’ve been discovered;

where are your children now, Mother?

You tried your best to watch

their every move, but the ocean

rose and swallowed them one night;

you were looking away, you didn’t hear

their cries; it was an accident. Now here

you are, underwater, struggling to discover

meaning in this vacant night.

What children do you mother

now, sunk on the salted ocean

floor? Once, your eyes watched

their every move; now bruised, watch

your front door, weary ears attuned to hear

the slightest echo of the ocean,

praying for their miracle discovery

as you whisper, “I am mother

no more, no cradle-rocked nights,

no milk-steeped sleep, only dark night

everlasting.” You maintain the watch,

you miss the bell-tone cry of, “Mother,

mother!” You desire nothing but to hear

their voices, claiming some small discovery,

playtime changing backyard puddles to oceans.

Mother, what sounds are there now to hear?

Your watch has stopped ticking; you discover

only nightmares of bone-coral in the ocean-bed.

Phoenix

The chainlink bites

the fleshy part of her hands.  She bleeds,

but Mommy always says no tears.

The September sky darkens, but

the lights are very bright. She climbs

a little higher to catch

the familiar scent of car exhaust;

wind streams her red scarf

like a banner, rocks

her tiny body back and forth.

She digs in so as not to fall and

for a heartbeat she feels

like a beetle, the kind

she sees amble around home

when Mommy forgets

to clean the spills.

The wind subsides a little,

she climbs higher. Her hands find

the top rail, leave

a salty red print. She feels

very tall: Mommy would be proud.

She leans over the fence

and stares at the grass ten feet below.

Peeking at the highway, she locks

eyes with a passenger-seat boy,

about her age, in a blue

minivan. His mouth gapes,

front teeth missing but

she blinks and he disappears,

neck craned in the distance

and maybe he thinks she looked

not like a beetle but perched like a bird and

for the first time no ceiling contains her.

She spreads her arms,

wishes she could fly, but

Mommy needs her home.

She swings one leg over and

then the other to descend.