she climbed into her tub

lined with bath salts and mirrors

chin-deep in scent

she would dream of a body

that could hold all of her

keep her afloat on this ocean

of good sense and breeding

she told no one not even
the one man she lived for
she put on her lipstick
she combed her brave hair
which she bore like a lantern
into the murmuring parlor
where they waited with smiles
and champagne on their lips

all night the waves pitching
all day the crows wheeling
through skies blue as his eyes
bright above the stunned lake
when he died she lay down
in their bed of silk tassels
in their bed of fringed curtains
and rose-colored satin

she lay down without tears
in that blushing cradle
and slept in that rocking
that cargo of sighs
each night the bed creaking
cast onto the waves
each dawn roses flaunting
their loose tongues of flame

she’s a kind spirit
they assure us
down in the village
poor soul left behind
when the party was over
searching the rooms
for his laughter
and a last glass of wine

Lady Freedom Among Us

don’t lower your eyes

or stare straight ahead to where

you think you ought to be going

don’t mutter oh no
not another one
get a job   fly a kite
go bury a bone

with her oldfashioned sandals

with her leaden skirts

with her stained cheeks and whiskers and heaped up trinkets

she has risen among us in blunt reproach

she has fitted her hair under a hand-me-down cap
and spruced it up with feathers and stars
slung over one shoulder she bears
the rainbowed layers of charity and murmurs
all of you   even the least of you

don’t cross to the other side of the square

don’t think another item to fit on a tourist’s agenda

consider her drenched gaze   her shining brow
she who has brought mercy back into the streets
and will not retire politely to the potter’s field

having assumed the thick skin of this town
its gritted exhaust its sunscorch and blear
she rests in her weathered plumage
bigboned   resolute

don’t think you can ever forget her

don’t even try

she’s not going to budge

no choice but to grant her space
crown her with sky
for she is one of the many
and she is each of us

For Sophie. Who’ll Be in
First Grade in the Year 2000

No bright toy
this world we’ve left you.
Even the wrapping
is torn, the ribbons
grease-flecked and askew.
Still, it’s all we have.

Wait a moment before
you pick it up. Study
its scratches, how it
shines in places. Now
love what you touch,
and you will touch wisely.

May the world, in your hands,
brighten with use. May you
sleep in sweet breath and
rise always in wonder
to mountain and forest,
green gaze and silk cheek—

dear Sophie,
littlest phoenix.

On the Bus with Rosa Parks

On the Bus with
Rosa Parks

All history is a negotiation
between familiarity and
strangeness.

—SIMON SCHAMA

Sit Back, Relax

Lord, Lord. No rest
for the wicked?
Most likely no
heating pads.

(Heat some gravy for the potatoes,
slice a little green pepper
into the pinto beans . . . )

Sometimes a body
just plain grieves.