Water Delivery

Water Delivery 
Oaxaca, February 13, 2025 12:30am

I should clean up the freesias in that vase.
The blossoms are falling off the stems.
They don’t smell as strongly this year as they did last year.
But at least I have them.
I searched in the market Sunday.
There was only one woman with a few tattered bunches.
No gardenias this year, though.
Might be the drought.
Only four rains last summer.
Not nearly enough.
The wells in the hills are running slow.
Jane’s is only seeping and Raphael’s is entirely dry.
The Casa buys water from the water truck.
500 gallons every three days for laundry and showers.
It comes late at night, after the other guests have gone to bed.
I am awake. I hear the howl of the transfer pump
starting up and the splash of water falling into the empty tank.

I think of home and my own well and always full water tank.
I think of the rain that never seems to stop.

Published on The Laundry Line, July 8, 2025.

May 3rd

May 3rd

Alders ring the pasture,
unfurl trembling new-green leaves above
pink salmon berry flowers.

I stand with my arms folded on the half door of the stall.
At my back, stored hay that smells like last summer’s heat remembered.

The sheep arrange themselves at the mangers.
Everyone shoving except for the old ram
whose stiff knees counsel patience.
One ewe scrambles up to stand in the manger.
The others eat calmly from underneath her grass fat belly.

Fluttering in front of a mess of twigs
and mud and spit glued to the top of a post,
two barn swallows bicker
over who will get the best nest above the hay loft
and who will have to settle for second best in the feed room.

My oldest ewe leaves off eating and shambles toward me,
head thrust forward,
asking for a scratch on the chin
and the chance to nibble on my gloved hand.

The swallows flicker in and out of the stall door.
Warm buff bellies and blue-black heads,
tails fletched like arrows.
darts that throw themselves through the air,
they circle the pasture
above the robins that hop awkwardly,
searching for grubs in the new grass.

The sheep settle into the business of eating
their figure-8 chewing
a soft, round motion that grinds
the hay against their molars.

Published on The Laundry Line, 1 July 2025

Salt & Longing

Photo by Georg Eiermann on Unsplash

Salt and Longing

pansies, pensées,
senses.
thoughts—
a bouquet of violets,

a violence
of violets.
voile,
voice,
voices on my radio.
radio waves,
waves on the beach head,
brain head.
my bullying brain
carried off by
the tidal bore.

how many times will you accept
my ungenerous impulse
to control
your voice.
my unvoiced vowels.

after frustration,
incoherence.
incandescent syntax of fury.

wrath:
such a pretty word for the
explosive,
punching,
punishing result of
thwarted desire.

athwart:
to lie crosswise.
as my anger lies at right angles
to this keel.

this ocean isn’t big enough,
the far shore isn’t far enough
to keep you safe.
from my punching fist
the slap of my open hand.

open hand:
that should caress
that should
make an offering,
make a confession.

but the eddy will pull me down again
and we will drown in salt and longing.

Published on The Laundry Line June, 24, 2025.

Praise Dream

Photo by Igor Karimov ?? on Unsplash
Praise Dream 

I praise the dream world
where black is now pink
and navy blue never appears
except in the delicate shells
of tiny bivalves.

A world where men dream
but women dream harder
because
it is harder to bear life
new life than
the same old life.

We dream harder and more often.
We do not lock our dreams into nightgowns.
We do not hang our dreams on the back of the closet door.

I dream of praise songs
that paint my world in daylight
with the wonder
of an owl’s night vision.

I praise my dreams in the daylight
because my struggle is with the daylight.
Night-time can get by on its own ancient knowing.

Oh, to be unmade like night dreams,
like a night bed.
A bed of night flowers,
sweet jasmine scent,
below the bedroom window.

I praise the needlessly barking dog;
he is ready even if I am not.

Published on The Laundry Line, June 17, 2025.

A Girl

Photo by Xianyu hao on Unsplash
A Girl 

A girl knows it is best,
in the summer,
to be out in the alley
before morning coffee
brings her mother’s grievances
into clear focus.

A girl hides behind a camellia
bush waiting breathlessly
for her best friend’s brother
who will later
drop a spider down the
back of her shirt.

A girl can be bought off for two quarters
and the promise that the source of
the bruise on her right thigh
will remain a secret.

Through the screen door,
a girl watches Sylvie’s aunt
take a drag off her cigarette
and sigh.

When a girl is uncertain she makes herself a question.

Published on The Laundry Line June 10, 2025.