My Name Is Not Mavis

And We Walk

We walk.
And she asks how I am and I tell her
Of feeling kicked to the side of the road
And the wrongs that I hold up to the moon each night
With regret and angst and exhaustion.
And I ask her how she is and she tells me
Of the scratches and marring of old hurts
On her heart that will not respond to scrubbing
On her knees even with prayers of grace she keeps
Ready in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
She listens and I listen.
Trust a large invisible space between us.

And we walk.
I point to the heron
In the river who shimmers
Blue then gray then blue
In the warming heat of the day.

And we walk.
Our breath becoming even and matched.
Our eyes turn upward as she nods to the trees
That are complicated, intertwined branches.
She whispers, ‘Last year we saw owls there.
You have to look carefully. At dusk, just before dark.’
‘We come and look for them sometimes,’ she said.
‘And once my daughter wept with the wonder of it.’

And we walk.
I think of the sudden flash of the heron
And the owls unseen and the small foxes that
Might be watching us, bedded down in the
High desert grasses. And the wandering
Streams that were once the sea.
Or so I suppose. I don’t know for sure.
I simply know that for a moment,
I feel resolved as I match her stride.
As we walk and talk. The celebration
Around us more than any
Story we have to tell.

Wonder

I let go of hope long ago
When the immediacy of survival
Pressed its lips hard
Against my temple.
Despair may have forever
Altered my heartbeat
But not even the wildest beasts
Of failure can rip from me the
Belief of my wonder
That I keep deep between
The bones of my hips.

Wake Up Wake Up

We never recognize ourselves
In the gloaming of our minds;
The blurry stranger off
In the distance, waving like
A lost madman. Treat him or her kindly
As you would your favorite neighbor.
The one who waters your geraniums
When you have to go out of town
To tend to your mother’s slow death.
The one who says hello in passing
On the mornings you are low.
And the one who has his own box
Of charms, tricks, and troubles
Under his bed that he guards at night.
Just as I guard my wandering, fierce heart.
Wishing I could love again easily.
Wishing I could be as insistent as the morning
Raven outside my window.
The one that perches on the church roof
And say, Wake Up Wake Up, you will never
Get it right but the sky is orange with
The sun about to break the blue night
Into a million pieces.
Wake Up, Wake Up, you and your neighbor,
And invite the stranger also. You will never
Get it right, but Wake Up Wake Up.

Field of Wonder

I have set up my tent in a field
Of wonder and secured
The flimsy lines with heavy rocks
And feverish prayers
That my home will hold.
But, I remind myself, when the
Pressure drops and weather looms,
When the worst hits and I lose it all,
Again. I can lay on my back
And watch the storm.
Writing my stories of epic fates,
While the wind howls through the
Loose atoms of my vulnerable being.

Live and Learn

Vulnerability sits on the very highest
Step of the staircase.
When you approach, make sure
The hand that holds yours
Will steady you, not give you a
Sneaky push that makes you tumble
Downward in rageful frustration
That you allowed it again.