after Linda Gregg

Is this where the ache 

began under grandmother’s table? 

I watched men’s gray slacks 

and women’s nylon legs

through the lace cloth.

Stuck indoors a trapped bird I wanted 

cold air. I wanted winter in my face.

Wood benches in windowless churches 

did not comfort me. Later my winged body hardened 

to steel. Fortified, I no longer felt daggers for my sins—

when I broke rules & cracked glass.

when I answered counterfeiter’s midnight calls,

tasted his mint breath and bathed 

in his smooth olive skin. 

Now, rusted a bit my body stiffens.

I no longer can glide the slow crawl— 

no arching on a park bench 

or on the hood of a black 49 Buick.

I will never give up wearing lace & silk.

Let the scent of cut roses leave this place. 

Let the open caskets stay closed.

Let them hide powdered faces iced to touch.

Leave the slow motion voices.

Leave the polished shoes 

that scrap against wood floor.

Let the lace I looked through that blurred 

this world and the next lift

the room’s cold chill. 

Let winter come. 

Breathe the open sky. 

Shed the disjointed stain.

Shed the tight clutch.

Let hail. Let snow.

August Heat

Last night, in bed shirtless I pulled

covers over him. It used to be 

we’d lay bare. The late night breeze 

across our bodies goose-bummed 

to a smoothed chill.

Cars on Santa Canyon Road swish,

swish then a lull,

swish, lull—an interlude

plays like surf at the water’s edge. 

He kicks the cover to our ankles,

He meanders my crooked spine

then moves to my hip bones —

skin to skin our cells sliver 

away time & its sharp silver fillings. 

The Shallow End