In Which Danielle Does Not Pray

I sat with my grandfather.

He knew my name, probably. He gasped for air.

I sat, loving him and not knowing what to do.

I offered to read Sherlock Holmes aloud, to rub his feet,

Or to bring him water.

I tell you this because I want you to think well of me,

Even if I was not useful. He declined.

I watched my mother, stalwart and gentle,

Care for him consummately. She shaved his whiskers,

Held his cup for him to drink, tucked the blanket around his feet.

Those things I might have done, 

But dying is an ugly business, and she did not shy from the rest. 

She held his hand through the gurgling ripping coughing. She did not balk

At urine or vomit or blood. She saw his legs become spindles.

She smoothed his hair and looked at him with such tenderness,

As though his mouth were not crusted yellow and as though 

He had never been a hard man.

I sat in the room and watched her ministrations,

And I could not possibly have loved her more. 

When he dies, I will cry for love of her.

(Selah. Ainsi soit-il.)

Wailing Wall

Cry, then, little monster

Let all of it whale up to the surface

Burst through your mouth

And slap its tail against the water

The way it stings

From all those molecules, hydrogen bonds

Clinging together

So the palm of all this grief stings

For full minutes afterward

And that is as it should be
Though once it's out
You needn't hold to it longer
Do not reel it back
Or throw a spangled scarf over it

This opening you've made
Is the essence of courage
And the shame isn't yours

It's for some other belly
And some other whale

Love Song to Carmen Sandiego

Hey Carmen, where you going next?
I've got my suitcase packed, and I'm ready to leave with you
And there's nowhere in the world I wouldn't go
So don't leave me here so lonely in Cairo

I would meet you in Minsk and kiss you in Kiev
And hold your hand on the banks of the Thames
I'd fly from the Mojave all the way to Skopje
And never look back
And never look back

You have ten different passports, I know,
Hidden in the pockets of that beautiful red trench coat
But since you're on the lam
Let me run a while with you
Hey Carmen, where you going next?

Cause I've got soles by the purseful, and a handy Finnish phrasebook
And two pairs of dark sunglasses, and a box of fake mustaches
And no one will know our faces
No, no one will know our faces

Hey Carmen, where you going next?

Cardiovascular Issues Prevent Me From Flirting

Sweat of summer lingers at the nape of my neck
September ushers in cooler air, but not fast enough

She is charming and wounded as we walk uptown
And I am pretending not to be breathless

Which is stupid, I realize, and it's not like it helps
But I space out my laughter to coincide with my lungs' demands

Hoping that she will not notice my panting
Or the flush of my face, red as autumn leaves

Danger Looks Different

I keep the dog inside
Because the moment he sees those damn longhorn cattle
He's going to go rushing after them.

Bounding, barking, horripilating,
With all of the fierceness and glee of a hunter
He will hurl his nineteen-pound body

Through one of the damn gaps in the damn fence
And toward the heels of some hitherto
Undangerous cow.

I could say to him, "No! They are fifty
Times your size! They are equipped with enormous horns!
You will be kicked, stomped, or possibly gored!"

I have said these things before, and always
He looks at me for the briefest
Of moments, as if

To say, "Nothing is more dangerous
Than playing it safe."
Before turning and charging

Through the rightmost gap
And toward the thrill.

Haiku On the Wisdom of Sufjan

Where I go, he goes
Click of nails on the tile floor
He watches for treats

Liturgy

Call your mother

Tell her how okay everything is

Try not to apologize for being fat

Eat a cheeseburger in the car

Eat salad at home

Sing the praises of balsamic vinegar

The phone rings

Three times in your purse before you answer

Hello, I'm sorry, I love you

Peace be with you

A handful of cereal

And also with you

Body Shame, Enumeration

                     Here are the
                    iron gates and
                     the waves of
                     heat and the
                      parliament
                       of weeds

    Notenough toomuch notenough too
   much notenough toomuch notenough
         Too Much           Much Too
         Much Too           Too Much
        Too Much            Much Too
           Too                      Much

         crawl        like         worms

      up        my          skin    violence

    of            braille          writing    up

  all      the       things       I        do    not

      otherwise        say     Slash     and

  Give me                             the overflow
         a machete          to catch
                    and a bucket
                       PERMIS
                        SIOND
                         ENIE
                            D
G  r  i  n  d                    m e  t o  b i t s


t o  m a k e                   y o u r  b r e a d


F  e   F  i                       F   o    F u c k


I  t  c  h                        a  l  l   t  h  e

w  a  y  h                      o  m  e  i  f

t  h  e  r  e                    i  s  a  h  o  m

e  a  n  y                      m  o  r  e

H   o   r   s  e                 T r a n q u

i l i z e r s                      E   l   e  p

h  a  n  t                         G   u    n


 

This Is Not a Poem About a Dead Bird

Today I saw a dead bird
and it didn't make me want to write a poem.

That's how I knew everything was going to be okay.

I mean, not everything. Clearly the ice caps are still melting,
the planet is still warming. World hunger is
still an issue, and local hunger for that matter.

I am still a poet with great bohemian passion but very
few employable skills.
Perhaps what I really knew was that nothing
was going to be simply okay, but that
I, truly the only arbiter of what okay even means,
would be okay.

I am okay.

There was a dead bird, and I am okay.

Anna, As I Resign

I want to tell you how Anna does magic.
It isn't couth, I know, to reveal these things,
But I feel I must speak in my own defense.
The magic is that her hazel eyes do exactly
What they promise. True, there is smoke
And a whirl of black crinoline, which
Under normal circumstances would lead
One to believe some legerdemain has

Occurred. But it hasn't. These are the trappings
Of Anna's overflow, the lagniappe.
The magic is in her joyful elocution, in her
Determined hollandaise, in her Northeastern
Nonchalance. If you weren't paying attention,
You might not even know or mind
That you had been ensorcelled.
After spoons and spoons of enchantment,
I realized that Anna's magic is exactly
What it claims to be, and the only illusion is this:
That I could ever
Love her
Enough.