The Bridge

I still pray for you

on long walks, and at night

sometimes when the world

is small and quiet,

or too big.

I pray your life will be rich

with God’s goodness,

sweet as your favorite

strawberry-rhubarb pie.

I pray that when you meet her,

you will be so happy.

Who knows, maybe

she will even show you

how to dance.

Funny now, how these

prayers are like little

gems of power

building a bridge, one drop

at a time for me to walk

my grief over,

and filling you with strength.

All these unspoken

colors illuminate the hope

that someday hello

will be woven with the fiber

of healed beginnings,

warming your hands

as much as mine.

Since our love crumbled

and drained out, these prayers—

this little, steady candle

remains.

It is enough.

Bookstore

You greet me like a fat tabby cat.

The door jingles and you’re at my side

nuzzling for attention, saying,

come out of the ugly drizzle;

here it is warm.

I wander down your aisles

where books crack and sigh

and open like daisy chain

crowns, each word a petal

in a garland to grace

those willing to listen.

These books smell like pine

trees, muffled walks in the snow,

cinnamon sticks and the first breath

of summer.     

These books have wandered

in pockets, under jackets in rainstorms,

on planes, between friends, lovers,

and enemies, held coffee mugs

and pencil marks, baked under

windowsills, and wrinkled

under tears.

So many journeys in one book,

in one aisle, in one bookstore,

in the world.

Cherry Blossoms (at the University of Washington)

petals flicker down--

thousands of winks

teased by the breeze.

frisbees, chiming

voices, children

in the grass, sneakers

on brick, on snow.

cameras flash

while

these snow faces

land so quietly—

thousands of beautiful deaths.

Moon Fishing

The city lights wink, and cars bob over bridges.

I perch on my boat and cast a line into your rippling

reflection. What would we do, moon, if you visited?

If you popped up with my fishing line, smooth as an

Oreo cookie. It would only be for one night, because

I know you’re busy up there. 

You could be a beautiful balloon bobbing over my

shoulder. We could stroll by all the children waiting

for moon dust magic, the children who sleep on cold

floors and hide in the back of classrooms. 

You could whisper in my ear about what heaven

looks like, if the view is any better from up there.

We could dispel that cheese myth too, I know you

don’t appreciate it. 

Then we could glide by restaurants where lovers

snooze, and light up the dark office corners where

fathers and mothers hide. 

I could pull that flag out of your ribcage. I love

my country, but you don’t belong to anyone. 

We could slow all the young people that hurry, hurry

on, who have forgotten they still live under you.

We could cheer up the elderly who need to look at

something new.

We could warm the hands of the homeless

whose nights are cold and long. 

We could tell this frantic world to hush, hush, hush.

We could do a lot of things, moon.

Seeds

(A new version of Reconcile)

Once, we planted lemon seeds by the sea.

Shoulders brushing, we loosened the fresh soil

in the pale morning light. Inside, the steam

from our cinnamon bread clouded

the window. But we only thought

of the salty air and the seeds,

 so cold and light in our palms.

We didn’t know then how bitterness

could grow to taste so sweet.

For months we still filled our cupboards

with jam jars and painted the sea together,

melting its sunsets into our canvas,

taming its lion waves in our frame.

But at night, locked in your warmth,

I thought of the buds outside, yellowing.

We sliced the first lemons, clean inside

as the sun at its birth. The first bite hurt,

so we covered them in sugar.

That’s when we saw our painting,

turned so still and sepia.

So we let our brushes rust.

Then it came, that storm vomit.

Our lips cracked, our tongues stung

you did, you are, how could you, I hate that you—

and our sea darkened to ashen purple.

 Rain screamed, shutters flew.

Our painting tilted, the jam jars rattled,

the roof unhinged.

The lemon trees stayed.

We stopped to breathe. I studied you,

your frame outlined in the blinking of a lamp.

I used to trace your soul.

You watched me too, me dripping and wheezing.

Your eyes softened.

We knew what to do.

We smashed them under our feet,

slicing and spraying their sour flesh.

Then we tossed them into the sea.

Reconcile

Here is the moment

when the words we’ve spun into stones,

thrown, hum like a wasp’s nest released

into our quiet canopy.

The fruit on our tree is rotting now.

We used to shelter there, one strong back

against storms, drinking its shade like wine.

Then, pebble small dissatisfactions came:

you are, you did, how could you, why would you,

I hate that you’ve twisted our love, it’s lust now,

it’s rusting our dreams.

The last wasp leaves. I see now, our vinegar tears

could make seeds for new trees or weeds.

Aren’t you tired? Our well is empty now.

We are both bleeding.

You once tread softly and needed no map.

Softly through the valleys and snow peaks in me,

the river beds and seas of soul behind my rib cage.

And I’ve forgotten you too,

how you are made of star breath and dust,

carved by God’s thumbs. I once filled a mast

with your miles, now I’m anchored at bay.

We must stop throwing stones.

Let us clean our wounds and plant a new tree.

Mother Country, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with beams and bed frames.

We keep our pennies in a jar,

pennies from coal heaps  

and cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. The children echo

in honey voices and sleep

like wild flowers,

soft faces yawning

into summer.

But sometimes at night

we rock in our sleep

the way we rocked on the sea,

wings full of ice,

aching for spring.

Original Version:

 

                                   

I. Farfelle, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with pennies for beams

and bed frames. Pennies

from carving coal heaps  

with cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. Carmella, three, sits

on a knee, claps and flaps

her tiny arms.

II. Carmella, 2012

Come in, sweetie, sit down.

Frankie can grab you some milk from the fridge,

goat’s milk. Try some. Mama mia, it is good. From

the little store.

I had a little white goat growing up. She’d come running

up to play on our crooked apple tree. She was a darling.

Then dad took her away. I knew, but we didn’t ask

questions. Her tree was in the orchard by the garden

and a hole. We used magazines for toilet paper

and boiled water from the creek. A bath, once a week,

youngest first.

How do you like the milk?

We’d let ours stand, you see, and scooped the cream

off the top. Ah, then we’d spread it over homemade bread.

And how we loved to steal dad’s grappa grapes. We learned

every curse brought back from the mother country.

Do I miss Italy? Oh no, sweetie, I was never born there.

I went for the first time with Frankie, oh, fifteen years ago.

It all came back to me. That’s what Frankie says, anyway.

Mama mia, mom! He says, I couldn’t keep up with you.

All those words we spoke at home as children, sweet again

as butter on my tongue. Grazie, buongiorno, la nostra Italia,

it is the most beautiful place in the world.

Only there it all came back. Someday you must go too.

Did we like growing up here?

Well, we owned two shoes, the best pair for Sundays. Yes,

just two. I feel sorry for you children today. Too many shoes

to wear, too many dresses to want.

We were happy then.

We didn’t know any different.