My Name Is Not Mavis

Sliding

Loose granite laughs under my feet
As I slide down a mountain face.
My heart beats richer, and
I am reminded of my short alive.

Searching

The man with a dog
Walks the desert in search
Of a totem, a sacred stone,
A rope to heaven
While his faithful dog
Searches for whatever he
Finds under the sage bush before
Trotting a crooked path
To the next what is.

my handful of troubles

my handful of troubles are nothing
but small stones and bits of shells
i keep in my pocket–
rubbed and polished by time and touch
as if coaxed by rough seas into
a talisman of sweet comfort

She Wish She Had So Now She Will

Arch her back to the fickle sky,
Emulating the moon
That flings its partially
Made self across acres of space
Regardless of night or day.
Brave but often incomplete.
What a spectacle. What a disaster
To think that you can show up
Like that. For everyone to see
As you make and remake yourself.
Confident. Uncertain.
Wildly weird in your power
To disrupt tides, shake mountains,
And warp tender souls.
Changing, betraying, tempering
The laws of balance and gravity.

The Woman in the Doorway

The woman leans against
The doorframe, casual and easy,
As if she’d never had a sleepless night.
As if she’d run through lovers like
Hot summer July days.
One hip cocked, surveying the world
And finding it wanting
Her. A woman who wakes with laughter
In her throat and a fierce grasp
On the rightness of her wrongs.
There is nothing more extraordinary
About her than me. As she stands there
Surveying the world from the doorway,
Watching me watch her as I walk by.
Her hair loose and her gold hoop earrings
Catching the sun and calling.