Three Poems
A Sestina of Sailing
“I sailed upon a sea of silk,” she spoke
that line from a dream but we were in line
at the grocery store, on land, far from sails
or water and not even in a restful state
of mind. Just so, I heard it and slowed
for a moment, seeing a blue outline
of cloud over the brown river, the green line
of treetop where the shadow of silence spoke
for me, like the drift and tug of wave, slow
but rhythmic, not silky. My eye meant to line
up the wheel, the flag, the marker - this state
of steerage so delicate - so like the silken sail.
Reverie is often askew, a zigzag sail;
tacking in memory’s mountain, the low lines
nothing more than poor sonar. In this state,
flawed by images, how do I speak
of the hard ground between us, the grey line
that blurs - our fog that turns fast things slow?
A sea of silk - the taste turns my tongue slowly
upon itself, sibilant-like, a puffy sail
against ivory boulders. But to align
sound, syllables, the softness on a line
and make it real (not a dream) is to speak
hard, single-minded words. From this state
of anchor, here in the grocery store, to the state
she blesses with alliteration, oh slow, slowly
goes the ride. This sailor, so used to speaking
in ellipsis, caught in the blows of sail,
how to navigate? There’s no straight line:
it’s all about tacking; let the wind find a line.
We both know that only birds fly the line
I want. What shift between states -
the silk and the sea - can align
enough even for this one slow
sailor with her unchangeable route, sailing
into a luff, pensive while you speak
of silk and sea lines, of routes too slow.
It is a calm state or a wild sail;
no line connects the two, only your speech.
The Geese Family
By 6:30, a blizzard of sting whips my eyes
just as the walls get hammered
by the metal of a semi slamming I-10
like a relative under my roof and unwelcomed.
Can’t make the budgies stop their lunatic
drooling; can’t make the moon reverse
its wind; can’t bring innocence into my house.
Down at the retention pond a family of geese
pull shoots of grass with their spoon beaks.
Two swell breasts, their black eyes gleam
as the children laze in downy harmony,
oblique to fear. None of it made sense
until this evening when memory tossed
its tight net over that morning scene.
Tomorrow, it will be another pond,
I’m sure, and in their white bareness,
they will continue those impossibly
anachronistic ways: hissing at dark things
dangerously close then returning
to the balm of hot grass spiced
with a torrent of sun. Patiently,
they will loll while light moves time.
The Baseball
Her eyes brightened and she followed its arc,
right foot forward and then away toward first
while a string of sweat flicked off her rhubarb cheek.
It flew over thick grass and blaring
lawn mower, safely over the antique Chevy
with candy apple coat, over the clothesline
draped in Tide scented sheets.
On it flew, until its round hide met
flat pane, becoming in a millisecond
a piercing cry of particles, colors
flickering in the two o’clock sun, shards
of glass planing across doily and vase,
yelping dachshund, crashing the apple pie
interior of this Sunday afternoon.
