My Name Is Not Mavis

My Sigh a Promise

On mornings when the coffee is especially strong and hot,
And the sun is a whisper unheard behind the mountains.
When there are no fresh bruises to press or memories to fondle.
On mornings when my knees take my weight and my hips curve nicely
Like the fullest moon in the western sky.
On mornings that are too early for quiet conversation or stern talks.
When there is only room for the silent movement of prayer
And my bare feet up and down the stairs.
On mornings when I don’t need to know yet
And pick up books just to hold them in my hands.
On mornings when soft effort feel like it will always be enough,
And it is easy to fall in love with nothing.
On these morning, the coffee especially strong and hot,
The sun yet a whisper, I turn a palm to the deep wonder.
My heartbeat a chorus, my sigh a promise to remember.

Green Pears

The pear trees are unusual.
Tall and upright as three aging gentlemen.
Their arms full of green wide-hipped maidens.
On tiptoes, I grasp and pull—one then two.

Here, I tell my companion.

Have one, I say, offering
A warm pear from my palm.

It’s July, she tell me,
Holding her hands behind her back.

I may not be here then, I think,
When they are ripest.
The crows call from the farthest branch.
I bite into the unforgiving flesh.

How is it, she asks.
Her face lit by sunlight.

I shrug, and roll the hard bits in my mouth.
Savoring the subtle taste of promises to come.
Like miracles, I tell her.
Like revelations in the dark.
I offer her the second pear again
As I take another bite.

When My Heart Wandered Like A Spendthrift

You were the song I liked for now.
The tight skirt bought on a whim.
A sweet treat when I prefer savory.
A jackpot frittered away.
The scent of scoundrel.
Flowers kept just past their peak.

The Soft Facts of Our Lives

We seek happiness in that which is easy
Instead of that which will light us on fire.
We chase love that is the color of pink and smells of roses
Rather than deepening within the lemon of our own scent.
We travel without willingness to sacrifice our comfort,
Spend without pleasure, and save without meaning.
We want soft, easy, complacent satisfaction,
When it is the narrow ledge and tender sorrow
That teaches the heart to sing.

Moon

You were the moon at my breast/On that night we kept time/
With the rocking of the chair/And the humming of my voice/

The song from another world/I’ve been searching for since/
But had just that once/The melody a silent note/

That ties your heart to mine/And sets you free
In your wider world of being/That no longer includes me/

But is alway contained in that one night/
When you were the moon at my breast.