Revisiting the Oleander

oleander for PMD

So many times
when thinking of you,

there is oleander at
the windows,

and you are coming
home to me.

Photo: logees.com

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becoming everything of aspens

she had become everything of aspens
growing in blue air until the day she
stood hovering over a happenstance

of wildflowers, the hem of her dress
yellow pollen, a butterfly following her
last of summer dreams, she kept looking

for moons in her pockets, and a garden
in her hair, hanging a picture window
in front of her soul – to see out, to see in

In My Backyard Time Capsule for the Next 15 Years…

(1) The Milky Way. Not a photograph or a video or even a candy bar. The Milky Way.

(2) An afternoon of distant thunder without the nuisance of lightning or rain.

(3) Autumn at its peak, and I don’t mean a few leaves or a photo or video. I’m referring to the whole of New England.

(4) The color periwinkle from the 1980s, and Miró yellow from the early ’70s. And while I’m at it, the 1970s and the 1980s.

(5) A jar of Tang.

When He Wakes

When my husband wakes,
he has rogue curls bent
from the night folding and
creasing them into origami cranes.

Each morning, I can’t help myself.
As birds circle his head, I try to
tame them by running my hands
through his flocks though I know
they won’t settle until he showers.

His curls are long now, stumbling
over themselves in soft repeating
collisions as he moves in bed.
Come morning, Great Herons flying!

Spaghetti

So I’m twirling my spaghetti
only the twirling shows no
signs of stopping.

People at tables next to ours
laugh nervously and smile
because the entire plate of

spaghetti is on my fork now
and there’s no retreating.
Sanity holds no sway. I reach

for the parmesan cheese
because clearly the situation
calls for more food albeit

sprinkled food. It’s time. I
attempt to lift the weight
of Manhattan and its Burroughs.

I lean in, but this, this forkful
of snake in the grass takes a
nosedive for my white shirt.

I’m now the victim of a hit and run
by means of marinara and floppy
noodles.

Nearby tables pirouette in every
direction not mine. Burroughs
fall to the floor.

As Summer and Laughter

It rained the day we met –
the day I wanted you and
never stopped wanting you.

A blind date of sorts in which
words rushed from me –
a kindred spirit.

I have found no one as
summer and laughter as you.
I write these words

as if you might have forgotten
us at 3am this morning, and
during your quest for danish,

you left me here alone,
awaiting your return as if I
could survive.