Hope Walks on Thin Ice
I pick a dandelion
its yellow life gone.
Scrunch up my eyes
take a deep breath, blow
wisps of hope into the air.
I fear cracks on lakes
broken vows and my father.
Prayer
a steeple of fingers rests
on my grandmother Ruby’s
quilt of violets and lily
of the valley.
The ice calls me or is it
my father?
I hug a tree, my cheek
against rough bark, ridges
like tiny rivers of hope.
Still
the ice calls.
Let Me Go but Hold Me
French corsets
pink ribbons tied
in sailor knots
gather up my pieces
break and mark
me yours.
I am a map
of blue veins you follow
to my salt and honey
sticks sweet to your fingers
your hazel eyes in mine
deeper as wave after wave
lifts me, throws me down
crushing my body on stones
as the undertow rips me away.
“You are mine”
his muffled last words.
I catch a fish
between my teeth
its tail thrashing.
On High
He would have savored
the rinsing of his insides
with wine and spices,
meeting death
a bit tipsy.
I saw him wrapped
in linen sheets lying
in a sarcophagus
like an Egyptian king.