The Most Delicate Bone

To become wise, a person must commit many mistakes

and thenfly into the sun.

Light does not cleanse, though its invisible whiteness

seems asif it could leech out impurities.

By the Ganges women with stones wash their saris

and thendrape them across the rocks to dry,

gossamer swathes of indigo, fuchsia,amber and emerald

with scatteredgold stars twinkle

amid the fields of pure color asthe water runs

from theHimalayas to the Bay of Bengal.

White saris for widows hide within their solemn threads

the fullspectrum of colors, a riot of reds and violet

unseen in the cloth of mourning— Sir Isaac Newton

discoveredthis with a prism.

Although you, dear reader, must forgive me because I speak

more aboutlight, than about cloth.

What would we see if I held a prism up to my character?

Or yours?

I like men with the names of angels,

one in particularplayed the cello and especially liked

the concertos of Boccherini, but Iremember most his sadness,

he wasinfinitely patient with his sadness.

This man, Gabriel, has come to serve as a mirror,

I do not need to reread his lettersto remember

the kind of young woman I used to be—  some things change

very slowlyuntil one day they become reliable.

The weight bearing skeleton holdsus together,

thelacrimal bone and its delicacy

near the well of tears, thescapulae where wings would emerge,

if wecould fly, the mandible that shatters

under the force of fists— my character as old as my bones,

I will never stand by a wall toface a barrage of stones.

Where Did You Go?

                                    for Andy Blank, 1957-2010

You are the rate limiting step,

we need you to make us complete.

But you’re so slow, a catalyst might be required.

Maybe a séance or hypnotism.

The reaction can only go as fast

as you hand over little pieces

of yourself.

There was that girl with the flower tattoo

who took you over the moon?

We all stood on the roof to find you.

When you followed the dog

into the sea filled with stingray,

we stood there with lemons.

We have not lost track or hope —

we can do it like dogs, smell yourtrack.

Wherever it goes we promise to follow.

But why does your pillow smell like your ear?

Why do these two guys wrap you in sheets?

I will personally put a stop to all of this.

I dare them to take you away.

Warning, this poem will not have the word “love.”

Your empty chair undoes us

when it’s time to carve,

though we never start with ablessing.

So, this is a formal invitation (demand)

to return and take your place. 

We find it hard to speak

of you, someone always gets sucked

down by the trap door.

But we are not afraid of ghosts.