In a While

I held her small feet
In my hands
Her long toes moving slowly
Unconsciously.

She stretched her body
Thrusting her feet
More firmly into my embrace
And I kneaded them softly
Like a baker would bread dough
My palms across the ivory
Of her skin
My fingers working
Her arches
Down to each tender toe.

Time crept slowly
Our shadows
Traveling across the floor.
Her eyes half closed
I watched her chest
Rise and fall rhythmically.

A long sigh
Escaped her red lips
And she opened her eyes
To look at me.

I love you
She said.

You love this
I smiled.

A long moment passed.

I love you
Much more than I love this
She said.

She lifted her long legs
Sliding to her knees
From the sofa
Onto the carpeted floor
Her hands moving
On my thighs.

A crooked smile
Played upon her lips.

In a while
She said
You may tell me the same.

Share the Air

Share the air
I said
Before our lips met.

I inhaled
As she breathed into me.

She inhaled
As I breathed into her
Our breath damp and warm.

We continued our
Singsong
Until we grew lightheaded.

And we laughed.

Share the air
She said
Placing her head
And flowing hair
Upon my shoulder.

I sighed lazily.
And we shared the air again.

Trail Mates

Telling him was unnecessary.
He knew.
We both knew.

Human eyes communicate
In ways impossible
With other creatures.

He smiled softly
Then turned his head.

It’s hard for men sometimes.

I love this man
Who sometimes angers me
But usually delights me.

We spoke of another time.
We would be trail mates
Whose conversations sometimes lag.
One of us may even lead the other
By as much as a mile
But we never lost sight of the other.

We would share the campfire
Look into the face of the same stars
And complain about the grounds
In the coffee
The next morning.

But we are not trail mates.
He carries a star in his wallet
And I carry a badge in mine.

Our eyes and bodies are aging.
We have both seen too much
Of the same heartbreak.

We have each other's back.
We can laugh together
But we cry separately.
One mile ahead.

He is my friend.
And we are trail mates.

A Personal Note.....

Yesterday, in my office, a young Latino woman asked my age. I thought...oh, we're gonna play that game.
When, unasked, she said "46." I thought...46....that's 14 years younger than I am. Then I began to mentally itemize her real reasons for her estimate. There were two:
1. I am, indeed, a young, handsome, virile man, to whom women naturally gravitate.
2. She wanted something that was in my power to provide. (Do not have a dirty mind. I control a rather
admirable account that could pay a bill or two).
As I was happily choosing reason #1, she said, "I do have an electric bill I'd like you to look at."
Oh well...they say 60 is the new 50. Yeah. Right.

In the Thicket

The cab of my truck
Becomes the Holy Place.
I park in a dark lot
My face awash
In the soft glow
Of dashboard lights.
It is a lantern glow
Against the stone
Of my face
Against the altar
Of my heart.

There is no Gregorian chant
Hallowing this small space.
Nothing but the hush
Of my exhalations
What sacred texts call
Ruach
The breath
The wind
Of God.

I bind the sacrifice
For the slaughter
The flow of blood
For sprinkling
Upon the
Mercy Seat.

I am both offering
And priest.

My head against
The wheel
Like the animal
Against the altar
I release my thoughts
Give away the content
Held captive
In secret places
Hoping it acceptable.

Vespers concluded
I ignite the power
Beneath my blood red hood
And drive away
In benediction
Marveling that the truck I drive
Like Abraham’s sacrifice
Should be what was caught
By its horns
In the thicket.
A
Ram.

Submission

Her ribs lie
Just below
The velvet
Of her skin.
I press into her
Arms protectively wrapped
Yet wantonly
About her body.

Her heart beats
Near mine.
I match her breathing
Breath for breath
My head tucked
Into the space behind her
Left ear
As though I might
Listen to her thoughts.

This must be slow
Like a stout brew
Nothing hurried
A full roast
Brings the best cup.

I hush her to silence.
Let’s do this wordlessly
Trusting our bodies
To communicate.
There are better uses
For tongues
Than phonics.

We exchange our
Mysteries here
Each becoming more than
The whole
When we join
The clay of our flesh
Mixing
With the untamed light
Of our spirits.

And we kiss each other
Into submission.

Still Time

I forget reason is unnecessary
When viewing the world.
It is simply there
To be seen
Taken in
With no qualification needed.

It was the same with her.
Reason was unnecessary
When drinking in her
Long legs
Lanky body
On her belly
Tangled in sheets
Eyes half open
The seed of a smile
On her reddened face
Hair tussled
And dark
Against porcelain flesh.

Her image
Is etched
Like an old daguerreotype
In the folds of my brain
Eternal
Never aging
Unchanged.
I still see her white robe
On the cream carpet
At the foot
Of the bed’s dark wood.

I still hear her voice
Content and troubled
At the same time
A contradiction
Just like her.

Stay
She said.
Do not leave.
Not yet.

There is still time.

There was
And there wasn’t.
My contradiction.

I kissed her
And left.

If I could rewind time
Do at all again
I would stay.
I would never leave.
I cannot remember what urgency
Made me go.
But I can recall every reason
I should have stayed.

Time is like that.
It smirks at us
Plays us for the fool we are.

She remains in memory
In that brilliant wash of afternoon light
Streaming through her window
The swell of her breast curving
Into the Egyptian cotton sheet
Her softly begging me
Stay.

There’s still time
She said.

The Veteran’s Toast

I stopped feeling years ago.
Numbness is a blessing
And far to be valued
Over giving a damn.

Caring has a steep price.
It slices the heart
Poisons the soul
And stings the eyes.

But years of stuff
Designed to take the edge off
Dull the senses
And soothe the mind
Wear away the years of pain.

I’ve stepped away
From the precipice
Its dizzy heights
And fathomless depths.

Those whose nerves
Are still sharp
And whose hearts
Are still filling with things
They will
If they are lucky
Live to regret
Jeer at me
Shaking their heads
Saying I am jaded
I have become fearful
And a shame to their vaunted
Esprite de Corps.

If I cared
I would turn
My face to the wall
So they could not see
All the pain
All the years
All the sorrow.

But I’ve stopped caring.

Damn their foolish pride.
Someday they will understand.

So, here's to all you
Young ones
Who know it all
Who smile smugly at old vets
Like me.

Open another one
And turn down the damn lights
So you can't see
What I know
About where you'll go.

Lost

Like an Oklahoma storm
She blew into my life
Obscuring all but her.

She was prairie fire
And towering smoke.
She was the echo
Of eagles
Off walls of stone
And the cry of the wolf
Against
The New Corn Moon.

She loved me
The way sight
Loves flashing color
The way scent
Loves garden blossoms.

She was water
From deep cisterns.
She was lightening
Blistering my flesh
With the rake
Of crimson nails.

She was fire and ice
Feast and famine.
She was ointment
And balm
Answering need
And desire.

She was perfect contradiction
And complete understanding.

She was a blazing comet
Whose trackless paths
Are forever lost.

Young Man

Young man
We are only three generations
Apart.
Our lives are
Radically
Different.

You sweated in cotton fields
Whose blossoms
Were as white
And dreadful
As the man who
Owned
You.

Owned you.

Those words are intolerable
Unthinkable to me
Three generations after you lived
Died
And were shoved
Into a red dirt grave
In the Mississippi
From which we both sprang.

Young man
I do not even remember your name
Though I saw it
On surviving slave rolls.

I want to feel the numbing pain
Of your life
But all I can do
Is imagine
And that is
Not
Enough.

Young man
I am sorry.
Sorry for your tears
And agony of your years.
But that changes
Nothing.

Young man
I would kill the man
Who enslaved you.
That is
Of course
Impossible.
He died long ago
In the comfort
Of clean sheets.
And my wanting to make things
Different
Changes nothing.

The one who chained you
Whipped you
Sent his dogs in pursuit
Of you
Laughed at your misery
And kicked your corpse
Into a poorly marked grave
Was my
Great Grandfather.

I visited the weedy patch
In which you lie.
You name is weather-worn
Illegible.
He is buried up the hill
From you
And the marker stone
For his body is gleaming granite.

I spit on that stone
Though there was
In that defiance
No redemption
For you or me.

Young man…
I am sorry.