sink

Photo by brojangles4 via Flickr.

i left the water running

oh my god

i left the water running when

you asked me to walk to the corner

to bum cigarettes

and laugh at call girls

it filled the bathroom sink

what is this

that i had stopped with an old washcloth

the front door clicked

you took my hand

and our feet hit the pavement

it seeped through the ceiling

please don't cry

as we swung our arms

past the deli

past the lady with one eye

and seven dirty kids

it ran over the table

it's okay

soaked our best laid plans

the stack of unpaid bills

and the laptop we bought

on credit last week

it rolled down the stairs

i forgive you

where we greeted it

confused and panicked

when we returned

to find the flood i'd made

Glass of Milk

I'm painting your bed

with strokes of white,

covering over what's chewed,

and chipping

and imperfect.

A new coat, Glass of Milk,

on the headboard

and the footboard.

I'm painting your bed,

on the porch, in the breeze,

forcing myself into the cracks

that were neglected

that were missed before.

I try to avoid brushing

the porch rail,

the spiderwebs.

I'm painting your bed

while you're away for a time,

forming relationships with others,

distant from our home

but not from my heart. 

When you return,

you'll rest in clean sheets

with a cat at your feet. 

I'm painting your bed

and it's hard for me,

because I have good ideas

which are often started

but not finished.

And so I force myself

to accomplish this thing

before you come back 

to sleep.

Pi at Midnight

Photo by Mykl Roventine via FlickrWe were discussing circles.

I knew there was some magical truth,

but what?

Measure a circle.

Measure its...

diameter?

Circumference?

And then what?

He remembered.

He retains so many facts; I retain thoughts and feelings, emotions and memories.

"Measure the circumference of that trampoline," he said.

Kids grabbed the coveted tape measure, all wanting a chance.

We all held on to a point on the circle, he and the children and I, steadying the tape.

"Now measure the diameter," he said.

Again, they scrambled, eager to get their hands on that tool.

It was cumbersome, but they worked it into submission.

We talked about fractions.

We talked about division.

We talked about multiplication.

"How many pieces of candy does each person get?"

Circles on paper, 

divide them, divide them, divide them 

until they are only hash marks on a page.

1

1/2

1/4

1/8

1/16

1/32

On and on and on.

More circles, this time using the jumprope, measuring its half and multiplying by two.

We divided the circumference by the diameter.

Again and again, 

the answer was 3.14

A light went on! 

And another!

He drew a symbol on the board.

"This," he said, "is PI."

Chalk figures on the green board

Represented members of the family.

Four girls.

Four boys (counting Papa)

And that's how we discussed ratios.

1 girl for every 1 boy.

A ratio.

1:1

Four boys and four girls became eight people,

And there were more sketched figures, 

this time the four-legged variety.

There were four dogs and eight people.

Each dog wanted to walk how many people?

Be fair!

That ratio was 2:1.

And then there were more circles;

On paper with a pencil,

On the hardwood floor with chalk,

with a brother in the center holding the rope

with a sister marking the circumference.

Out came the protractors.

Out came the compasses.

A happy nine-year-old boy,

his six-year-old sister

close behind

"I just learned PI," 

proudly announced

the happy nine-year-old boy.

"I know what the sign for PI is!"

proudly added

the six-year-old sister.

It's just after twelve a.m.

In this family,

We enjoy a little bit 

of PI at midnight.

For the Poetess

 Photo by Collin Harvey via Flickr

“Do you have a home church?” she asks. 

How, then, should I answer?

The truth misleads, regardless of my reply.

This morning, the adirondack rocker is my pew.

I sit before a stack of firewood, the fat orange cat

perched atop his altar;

the congregation, the dogs at my feet, alternately snip at one another

and lie contentedly.

The Northern Flicker is my preacher, laughing his sermon against the masterworks of the mourning doves;

the smooth stones between the dill and the basil are my object lesson.

There were five. The other four had a purpose, too.

My communion is the peach I pull to my lips, reluctantly sharing

with the infernal internal curculio.

And the poetess’ chapbook is my devotional, her vulnerable words

sinking to the gut of me,

demanding introspection,

forcing my head back until all I see

is an endless, even blue,

And the Spirit spills from the corners of my eyes,

through my hair,

drips from my earlobes, distilling to the earth beside the

basset's heavy jowls.

Regardless of my answer, the truth misleads.

At the Recital

Photo by Alan Levine via Flickr

I felt a dream today,

my cheekbone against the top of your head,

separated only by the thickness of my flesh

and the softness of your hair;

deep breaths through my nostrils,

inhaled you, dirt and oil and child,

your pulse against my face

(or was it mine?)

a thumping metronome.

I had to coax myself into admitting

that you were not imaginary

that you, born of my flesh,

were actually alive, 

nestled beside me,

and

that moments like this,

if not captured with ink and paper,

will soon disappear.