Through the spring streets
of forsythia yellow
a man and woman walk
hand in hand,
his eyes a reflection of her face.
He tells her what he sees and she
replies with otology --
the sighing of branches
as shadows lift from trees,
the footsteps of the wind,
the murmuring of daffodils
nuzzled by heat.This they share;
he the eyes
she has never had,
and she the decoder
of his six month
death song.
Author's Night
We come up to him,
holding out his book like a missal,
suppressing giggles, our lips parted
like adolescent girls.
"Who the hell's in charge?"
someone yells,
and we realize it's him.
"This fuckin pen's outa ink."This is the man who writes like
God's own angel
and the crazy in his closet
just showed us his wings.
Ice Queen
You wear your features carefully
your half-closed eyes remembering Madonnas on old Christmas cards
the silver of lace between your dark lapels like paper snowflakes
I, who so often sit by myself
sit beside you
sharing my scent of sorrow like you once shared
an unaffordable perfume.
My brother -- your husband -- lies profiled like the range of
some cold mountain
with shadowy thunderheads passing over, human-shaped:
you
sad glacier
move too slowly to reach him.
Each lustrum I feel compelled to struggle over
you
like a small pebble reflected in your ice
to touch his hand
fix his hair
lift one small petal from his tie.