Pomegranate
[Published in Two Review, Cold Press, Anchorage, Alaska, 2010]

At 49, this is the produce I resemble most—juicy heart and mind, blood red intentions, a tempered shell that keeps out naysayers, but lets in light, fingers plucking sweet kernels from ancient, bitter casings.

I renounce the lie of inadequacy in others and myself, knowing we are all divine, like the sacred fruit, whose calyx evokes the Star of David, whose interior patterns were woven into high priests’ robes, and carved into temple pillars.

I take what I like from the old laws and leave what no longer serves me, refusing to retreat, run or hide, allowing the seeds of my soul to burst and splash.

My nectar is an aphrodisiac, an antiseptic, a dye.



A Letter to My Daughter
[Published in Lilith, Vol.37, no.4, Winter 2012-13, Lilith Publications, NYC]

Dear Daughter,

When the world tries to pry your fingers from the slippery rim of your own instinct remember you are here to teach as well as learn.  Do not be timid.  Grow tall as redwoods, fierce as a shark, and carry a wide ocean heart.  Howl when you must.  Peel onions and cry, examine thoughts that rattle your skull.  Dust underneath your bed.  If you have to be sick, make sure the toilets are not clogged, nor the sink overflowing.  Remember your ancestors, hold their stories in your hands like stones, sink into your gut and let it quiver, like your granddad’s fingers as he lights his pipe.  Suck an orange, roll out a pie crust of clear intentions, trim your bangs, hunker down, tell a lie, bare your fangs, bite down hard on the fleshy arm that holds its hand over your mouth—but do not be surprised to find it is your own.  Bleed and swell, welcome coins and consciousness.  Fly south with the geese, take your place at the front of the formation; make it easier for those behind you.  Dust your hiking boots, hit the trail, fret not over wind erasing your footprints.  Even as you stumble, cough and curse, know you are headed in the right direction—right and wrong are pancakes easily flipped.  Bake an angel. Blow out candles, become a year wiser.  Feast!  Invite guests or dine alone.  Sweep for the untidy, wail for the orphans, beat pillows, curl your eyelashes and cry your mascara onto canvas.  Life is an abstract impressionist painting:  one moment a waterfall, and the next, a bolt of lightening cracking open your sky.

Yours forever,
Mama


Bedtime
​[Published in Grandmother’s Necklace, Epic Press, Belleville, Ontario, Canada]

My grandmother inches her way
to the edge of the sofa to stand.
She leans forward, chest against knees,
freckled hands by her thighs,
and pushes herself onto wobbling feet,
her torso curved, a question mark.
She straightens slowly
and looks at me,
knows I've been watching,
holding my breath,
hoping she wouldn't knock
her balding head
against the edge
of the glass table.
She steadies herself
in her walking shoes.
Years ago she smiled
when I said, "I like that you never
wear grandma shoes."
She still doesn't. 
Not the kind little old ladies wear:
pin holes and open toes.
But she doesn't wear
patent leather heels anymore,
and she's cut her hair
and stopped dying it brown.
Polyester stretch pants
have replaced silk skirts
and nylons with straight seams.
She's no longer a piano
student at Juilliard
or choral director,
or the keen-eared matriarch
who, driving, heard every word
whispered in the back seat
of her newest Cadillac, 
her leather-gloved hands,
no longer on the wheel—​
nor is she bargaining,
like she used to,
with merchants in Mexico
over blankets, guitar strings, and jewelry.
She isn't eating gelato in Italy anymore,
or reading my future in a deck of cards.
She's no longer dragging me
to every Cathedral, museum
and city bus tour in Europe—​
or reminding me not to slouch,
or suggesting I study medicine,
or kissing my cheek
and declaring me scrumptious!
I take her by the elbow.
We shuffle toward the bedroom.
"I don't think of you as old," I say.
She smiles,
and for a moment
we are both young again.
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