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
The People Parade, as told by L’il Foot, the Little Penguin
they’re there all day if you look hard enough
one or two scattered along the boardwalk
hidden in the scrub
but it’s only when the light goes rose
that they gather by the hundreds
wide pockets of bodies
lining the shore
we wait for them to settle down
my mates and me
then when they’re calm and quiet
we move in close
to see them face-to-face
they make so many calls
it’s hard to know what they mean
squealing and cooing
trotting up the path
I like to stand still sometimes
let them flow around me like a river
of legs and eyes and voices
and wonder what their homes look like inside
where exactly are they hurrying off to?
it’s different every night
this evening there were four
who matched each step with mine
as if I were escorting them home
out under the stars together
heading back after a long day’s fishing
we took it easy together
ambling up the hill
the smallest one didn’t even wear trainers
he left his pink feet out in the cold
and his flip flops slapped against
the boards each step
I named him Li’l Toes
and blinked him a quiet goodnight peck
and wished him sweet dreams
wherever he lays his head
before I lost him in the crowd
