Tuesday, August 2, 2011

In Memory of My Mother, ten years after.

My mother died ten years ago, but she still comes to my dreams.


The white ibis glides overhead

to the far side of Turnball Bay—

the distance between what was said

and all I wished I could say.

Before me, the muscled tides flow,

and sharp winds cut back at the waves

so I can’t see what lies below—

those secrets the dark water saves.

The sea grass curves in question marks

around my searching, submerged hand.

Blue, broken shells like heaven shards

lie on the narrow strip of sand.

Whichever shoreline I walk to,

the wild birds fly to the other.

This morning divides me from you,

but the birdcalls echo over.

In Memory of September 11th, 2001

This was written in September 2002, in NYC,

when there was a sense of waiting for the next catastrophe.

But nothing happened, not even the leaves fell that month.

There’s a little homage to Philippe Petit, who walked a wire between the twin towers.

September, 2002, NYC

What Memory Leaves

They quiver in the breeze

and cling, and try to stall—

this year the city leaves

do not want to fall.

They cannot join the rest,

the ones who fell last year—

all trace of them is swept.

The hard concrete lies clear.

Like walkers on a wire,

they shiver in the wind—

where are the cloaks of fire

we look to see them in?

Can the green leaves recall

what passed before their birth?

Don’t they know all must fall?

The sole rest lies in earth.