Flip Flop My Mules
Go in the parking lot
I’m as happy as people on earth can be.
Pushed to the limit daily the grit of sun in trees
& my mules:
She who had been aghast
Watched a truck with “10800 Get Junk” pass
Thinking of the bricoleur
We all have been;
The past, mire & gold.
Good. Good. Belly good, as old Chinese say. Thirty three years.
Holy Moly says Orphan Annie
My love, I cannot read to the bottom of her thoughts
But God alone knows
She blossoms like the rose.
I go. Love flows.
Anne, your mind is a gold mine
With lace veins
Elves have not stolen.
Once you gouged your skull
Now no more
You strike Italian marble, with words delve deeper.
A marble & ebony magpie against sky
Doesn’t belong with Holly in our July
But scaling sky of a classicist O Salem
You have in your eye Sappho’s passion.
Now I know
At school, last days of 7th grade, I must have contracted polio.
Those last days I walked slow motion as thru oil
To the yellow brick library, a dollhouse in New Rochelle
Against a yellow brick sky
Toting books home, so thin, so lean.
Before we broke the dining room mirror the three of us, horrified
I found myself a mirror shattered.
When you look askance at me
When you pop all my balloons & rain on my parade
(if you have wandered from me)
You were the angel
At the top of our Yuletide tree.
Was eerily magical
Hexagonal glass translucent
Wealth haunting as poverty
Toe crux of me.
Were her eyes green or gray?
Was she a flake with speckled eyes?
I always tried to live a good poem as a child before her
Wearing white stockings, combed blond bangs.
Finding thimbles of strangeness, steel shavings
Tarnished gold of old ring
O horn of hope. I found carbons
Copies of this fragile threatened globes.
Animals stood, statues:
A maverick, goat, sheep dog
While little sister with her chestnut bangs stood behind
“Horsy Dog!” she pointed to a Great Dane passing on Fifth Avenue
five stories below grandmother’s room
unfathered, unmothered—by my childhood polio nearly unsistered
but always in the presence of
Grandmother’s magus-like magical cupboard.
Libris, the Lion
Of wood is being refurbished:
Will his mane be golder in the fall, the snow?
“Branch into reading” a tree with a thousand flickering knives for leaves
shades a child’s imperiled head.
And I am one blue number:
In this stream I have fed
Of discontent: stoicism must suffice, dry pie
This other side of paradise.