A Better Way Out

When the Prince proposed to Cinderella
Shivers skated up her back.
The glass was cold, her toes were cold,
And there was the prince at her feet.
He said, "Marry me."
She said, "I'm somebody different already."
He said, "You could be queen."
She said, "It was not until this night
I discovered I already am."
He said, "Marry me."
She said, "All of my life I have not had a spine.
I cried at the roots of my mother's tree, which grew
Tall and powerful. I cried and wished, and was heard.

So after midnight tonight I came back home and cut down the tree.

With the same blade I opened myself, sliced from one set

Of lips to the other. I shook out the sawdust, the cotton,
The batting, the rags, and every soft thing that ever said

Yes when I meant No. In the empty places, I set branches

From my mother's tree. Then I glued my skin back with sap,
And you can see where it has seeped through my dress."

He said, "Did it hurt?"

She said, "Yes."

He said, "How can you stand it?"

She said, "I am a woman."

He said, "Marry me?"

She said, "I'll consider it. I did enjoy the dancing.

But first, go home. Take these soft things with you. Open

Yourself, if you can, and shake out every hard thing that

Ever heard Yes when someone said No. In the empty

Places, set these leaves and berries and flower buds and tufty caterpillars.

Then you and I will both be filled with things that grow."

He said, "How will I stand it?"

She said, "I don't know. But if you try, I will go dancing

With you again."

He said he would, and so he did.

Together they melted down the glass slippers and

Blew the glass into a vase for all the green things

That sprout from their heartseams.

Three Non-Haikus To Exculpatory Rest

This morning I stayed
In bed, lolled for hours, and I
Did not feel guilty
Even though the clock
Chided me and the dog whined
At the door and the
Daylight commanded toil and
Productivity
I stayed laxly put
In the certain knowledge that
We all ebb and flow.

Home Haiku

My mother loves me.
I'm driving to New Orleans
To patch our levee.

This Memory Keeps Us Warm

When Appalachian December bit through all of my quilts,
we lay shivering and cursing at the broken space heater,
And you said,
Close your eyes and see us at Coffee Call.

At that hazy cranny in Baton Rouge,
there was nothing between us but a plate of beignets
and steam rising from piles of powdered sugar,

white and pristine as banks of snow.

Little James, Changeling Child

My cousin screams his bloodful displeasure
The textures rake his skin
The noises break his ears

My aunt and uncle coax him into boy scouts
And little league, summer camp for audio-integration,
Have him tested for every possible disorder
Still he wails, bites, kicks, and spits

That baby with sweet almond eyes,
Who smiled and drooled as any baby should,
Was replaced in the night by a child
Who cannot speak to the world,
A boy of violent inclinations

He eats but rarely
Shoves his sister into walls
Shrinks from thunder as though it were iron

The other children call him freak and idiot
If not for their Roman Catholic upbringing,
They would call him changeling
If not for the teachers' watchful eyes
They would do him worse
Run him through with lead pencils
Strike matches along the walls of the gym
And light his shirttails
To see if he gives himself away as a monstercreature

My aunt and uncle, throats raw from yelling,
Eyes sore from crying, sigh into the relieving moments
When their undersized and battering son sleeps,
Twichily dreaming of the other worlds to which he belongs

Of the Laurel Tree in My Garden

An aeolian harp is an instrument played not by human hands but by the wind. A stringed instrument, tall, if you place it in a windy corridor or on a hilltop, the wind will rush through the strings, causing them to vibrate and making the most eerie, beautiful, and haunting noises...at once a sigh and a moan. It was named after the ancient Greek god Aeolus, god of the wind.


Daphne remembers
And wind whistles through her.

Once she tumbled, limbs over limbs,
With lovely Eola.
She and she would laugh, dance.
They were for one another
And it was enough.

But jealous gods breathe jealous gales,
And Apollo, storm of lust in him,
Could not bear to see their hands entwined
Climbing like catbriars with dark, tumescent berries.
He gave chase to take what was never his.

When I see Daphne now,
She is posing her prayer to the gods from my garden.
Her feet anchored in the soil, her arms up in supplication,
She begs the gods for the day when no man sees fit
To rape what he may not have for the asking,
And when a pair of blossoming nymphs
May love as they choose.

I add my prayer to the laurel's,
And in my queer heart dream
Of some future she, and the knowledge
That she and I will be for one another
And it will be enough.

Meanwhile in the garden, Daphne remembers.
She has become both a tree and a harp,
And Eola, a whisper of wind, still plays her strings.

Tuesday and the Swamp Lady

“Love is a fire. But whether it’s going to warm your hearth or burn down your house you never can tell.”

Tuesday and the Swamp Lady

Here’s what I want you to know.

It went down like this:

Palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss

But it was more than palms that sent Tuesday to the swamp lady’s door

Oh yes, so much more.

From her perch in a window

The swamp lady saw down into the streets

And on grasshopper legs goes dancing her way

This powder keg of a girl

They call her Tuesday

Oh Tuesday, now Tuesday
She had rhythm in her knees, in her elbows and her pockets
And her mama couldn't stop it

Oh honey, it was rhythm in her knees
It was pink lemonade and black-eyed peas

In rhythm and sugar, she was a black-eyed feast
So Tuesday, she came dancing down the street

With all the fireworks of a girl who has not been told that she can’t

Who has not been told that she isn’t

Who has not been told she ought to be kept down

So Tuesday whipped her braids around
Some slick young cat, he liked the sway of her back
So whistling at those swinging braids
He yowled and wound around her legs

Oh honey, it was cherries jubilee

It was stars and the moon, and black jellybeans

And what Tuesday grew, that’s between you and me

But her pockets were full of rhythm
Her mama said, “Don’t you do that dance
Bring trouble into my kitchen”

So Tuesday, she danced herself right onto the streets, right into the rain
Away from the feast, and right towards the pain

Cause that slick young cat who liked the sway of her back

Heard those songs as they were burgeoning out
And before a single song had left Tuesday’s mouth
He was a-running on his way south
Where, oh honey, birds fly in v’s,

Where it was sunny all the time, and there are tall palm trees
And not a single trace of those black-eyed peas

And no matter that Tuesday looked all around
She couldn’t find him, but oh yes she found

That her rhythm slowed down

As her belly grew round

And from the window, watching it all

Is the swamp lady, who puts palm to palm

Knowing it takes more than holy palmer’s kiss

So when Tuesday arrived at the door, she told her this:

Red swamp lady, call now to me, resound below the waterline

Belay my hands sweet sugar water for that man dark and leonine

Daytime mister, speak in whispers, fisherman’s knots work under my skin

Mossy vista, moon-eyed sister, into my fabric press round little pins

And with a purse full of herbs and home remedies

Swamp lady sent her home to tend her black-eyed peas

So some smears of blood later, Tuesday found out

Where once there was rhythm is now an empty pouch

And she knew she couldn’t stop it—she was empty as a pocket

Feast and famine come to us all

And the swamp lady’s ready to heed to that call

But what I want to ask, what I came here to say
Is what does it cost and are we ready to pay

Or do we push it off, for another Tuesday?

I can tell it's love because when I'm with you
I turn into an idiot.

I forget what I did this weekend
And how to find 20% of my bill for a tip.
I say unclever and possibly racist things.

All of this to guarantee that you will think I'm an idiot
(and possibly a racist)
And not ever want to see me again,
Thus ensuring my unremitting singledom and eventual solitary death.

Stage Four

Too long the moanly hands
Ran over and over my hair
Smoothing the hiccups
Into shuddering Baby baby babies
And Ssshhhhh nows

Please convey my deepest thanks to everyone
For their condolences, prayers, thoughts, and good vibes
And please
Get out of my sight.

Inheritance

I cannot wear cowboy boots.
My mother gifted me with her relentless calves, which preclude wearing shoes that go up past my ankles.
I've never been fashionable, so maybe it doesn't matter.
But then maybe it does, because even galoshes get stuck at the juncture where the goose egg of muscle rejoins the rest of my leg; when it rains I have the appearance of someone who does not believe in sensible shoes.
These calves would make my legs powerful, if I were the sort of person who does powerful things with her legs. But I am not that sort of person. My mother, on the other foot, is.
She power-walks, power-spins, and power-plays tennis, and with her Herculean calves she propels herself ever forward, fit as a fiddle. I suppose that would make me more of a cello.
When my mother was informed of her colon cancer, she planted those powerful legs on the ground, and she stood and stood.
I cried. She stood. The cancer bowed.

On one particular Wednesday, I ripped a hangnail nearly to my knuckle.
I had gone to a Zumba class that morning, couldn't keep up, and left early in shame.
I sat in my car, the paunch of my belly drooping perversely over the waistband of my pants, and I wondered, where is my tenacity? Am I even a trace of that powerful woman?
As my index finger bled onto my hopeful spandex, I looked down.
And there they were, my trembly and uncoordinated legs.
I do not feel powerful yet, but my legs tell a different story. They speak to my mother. They say, This is my tribe. I belong to you.