Shiny Things I Found in the Gutter

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I found a diamond ring in Las Vegas. It was a man’s thick gold ring set with two diamonds shaped like a signet. I put it in my pocket and flew to San Francisco.

Yesterday, I found a child’s pink hair barrette fixed with a rainbow butterfly studded with tiny gems.

I found a squat green dice rolled to the number two.

The Queen of England, heads, on a one-dollar Canadian coin.

A single earring, the French hook flattened, dangling cats-eyes.

A thick indigo glass bead, heavy as any Spanish olive, which I hung on a silver chain.

A vintage filigree rose-gold ring set with ruby chips.

Many keys.

A tiny lock for a toy suitcase.

Many nickels and dimes, especially under parking meters.

The silver outline of an italicized heart that I hung on the chain with the blue bead.

A brass bracelet dangling with sharp green crystals that chafed my wrist.

A Tiffany’s watch.

Silver charms and trinkets, which I hung on the chain with the slant heart and blue bead.

A kinked gold box chain with a shattered clasp.

A pyrite marble smooth as smoke.

A crystal marble with a frozen breath at its heart.

Magpies foretell the future. The piebald bird, goddaughter of raven, wears harlequin and swears endless oaths. She knows her own reflection. She strides the back of bison big as box cars to groom ticks from shaggy hides. She is a thief, bold and shameless, of biscuits and sandwich wrappers. Tucked in her nest are strands of yellow silk, fairy hair, a jade button, and a doll’s blue glass eye. From these findings, she reads the signs and prophesies. She stores them away, as proof.

Originally published in Tishman Review, July 2018.

 

On Work

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“And what is it to work with love?

It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.

It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.”

–Kahlil Gibran, “The Prophet”

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Aftermath

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The sun pushes upward into an empty city.

The triple tree-of-heaven, Ailanthus,

Toppled once to the east, twice to the west,

Roots a waking bear crack the pavement as it falls.

Wrack and wreckage,

Flotsam flung from a receding wave.

What did you lose?

What did you surrender?

Because there was no choice save surrender,

As sun and moon met the Earth Shaker.

Storm Warning

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

― haruki murakami

Blue Iris

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Tiny blue iris surface among the dead leaves.

Just when it seems like a corner, the horizon flattens out, far flung to the line of sight, so far the pavement shivers, and it’s always been this, this winter hex, summer just a myth we share to keep us believing–I never walked barefoot over pink daisies in the lawn and there’s never been spotted fawns sparring on the hill, and my hands will never be warm again. I wonder if it’s August in South Africa and Australia. If yes, please write.

I flinch with every chime from my phone when it’s another advertisement for thumb drives in primary colors that I don’t want, although I’m not sure what I want exactly, just nothing that can be bought. February is one long damn month for the shortest one: Valentine displays are dismantled and lonely hearts lumped in sale bins marked down for quick sale. The full snow moon passed over but she’s still digging in her nails and not letting go. Rain rages down shooting ice pellets. I’m tired of this story.

Tiny blue iris surface among the dead leaves. I had to go down on my knees to sweep them free.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

–Mary Oliver

 

A Commonplace Book

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I’m selective about which books I buy now, there’s not enough shelving. I’m careless, anyway. Once finished, I’d toss the book under the bed until no more fit and pages spilled out into the aisle. I tripped on hardbacks in the night. The dog made a den under the bed and hides mangled toys there, so that’s no longer an option. I borrow books from the library. Sometimes I pay fines. There’s no excuse for it, but it’s true. It usually happens when no renewals remain, someone else requested the text, and I’m not ready to surrender.

Though confessing to carelessness with my own books, I take great care with borrowed ones. I do not fold down page corners. I flip through the pages to remove scraps of gift wrap or newsprint bookmarking before returning a library book; most solemnly, I do not mark the text or margins. It is dismaying to open a book and find underlining, bracketing and marginalia that is not ones own. It is distracting and rude. (Another confession: Not a fan of David Foster Wallace footnoting for approximately the same reason. However, I’m intrigued to find a previous borrower’s bookmark scraps to scrutinize for hidden messages.)

I read with a pen at hand, a fidget of concentration. I keep a small spiral notebook, the size of a generous postcard, with unlined pages as a commonplace book. I record notes and copy passages into this book. Although transcription is slow, and my handwriting is careless, tracing a sentence word-by-word tattoos it to memory’s skin whether or not the point is mastered:

“We are the wind chimes, not the wind,” a poet wrote about crafting her art.

“In essay, avoid the use of personal pronouns, although the essay must be personal,” Donald Hall writes in his “Essays after Eighty.” (I contemplate this advice while still unraveling it, obviously.)