flight to Christchurch
without asking
the friendly flight attendant
turns off my light
and puts me to bed
all I can do as we wing our way to
this land of crinkled cliffs
and warm woolly flesh
is scribble work hard and rest
before the scene goes grey
with the gift of sleep
Mom, leaving
it’s only after she disappears
beyond the departures curve
that I realize
we forgot parting photos
just like her water bottle
still chilling in our fridge
where I promised (and failed)
to remind her to look for it
somehow despite all my
absentmindedness
attending to other plans
not being fully there
she still seems to feel
I’m a good daughter
on this trip she brought
a bit of evidence to reassure us both
a note I wrote when I was 8
apologizing for the indifference
of some unimpressed Brownies
letting her know I see her effort
thanking her for all she gives
and promising I will always
love her louvers
first didgeridoo
vibrations:
waves ripple atom to atom
neuron to neuron
my ear like a drum
throat like a flute
and there is the possibility
that the right song will
shepherd all my energies
into ideal alignment
every water molecule
that gives me shape
attuned to some higher frequency
that at last relaxes
the rigid lump that I am
into multi-layered harmonies
apology
I will build a cloud of calm
a warm nest you can sink down in
a cool pool to plunge into
when your temper’s gone hot
and your eyes flash
and fists clench
and lip curls in a sneer
inside will be the sparkle of stars
and the sleepy sound of cricket calls
the scent of lavender and vanilla
the soft soothe of otter fur
so dense it soaks up
all the loud jagged jabs
your elbows might wish to throw
in the center of this scene
will be my warm tender heart
always open to you
cozy as a little penguin’s jumper
even when you’re on the warpath
over toothpaste shower or parka
it’s not ready yet
but, my big, sweet son,
I’m building it now
space for us both to breathe
