We Do Mushrooms in the Bath in Napa
How good it feels to be naked and nowhere
else. The edges of us blurred and out of focus.
Our fight, forgotten. Blame in piles on the bathroom
floor. You take a photo, my loose laughter, my gown
of suds. Love, it’s horrible what middle age has done
to us: mortgages, toddler tantrums, constant tyrant
of time. Forgive me for the worry, the ways stress stitches
my speech. Survival can feel so solitary. But now
the water laps. The mushrooms nudge. Open
and more honest, we float. Of course, I’m lonely too,
I whisper. Put my hand to your cheek. Maybe
the hardest part of love is remembering it’s there.
After the Beach, I Take Myself to Birthday Oysters
Delicious to swallow something so expensive.
Slurp the salty gray pillows and rosemary gin.
For years now, I’ve been searching for a truth
I could die to. How to dress for the weather
of my forties. Healing and health scares
and second acts. But still, I’ve learned to slip
into silence like a warm bath. Return to myself
like a tide. In Venice Beach, someone named
two Adirondack chairs and a slab of concrete,
Second Chance Park. There’s a 30-minute time
limit. Now my life’s likely half over, I have no more
use for lonely. Not with all the starfish and Redwoods.
The Pacific and her thousand blues. Not with this
tiny corner where anyone can start over.
Not with all these empty shells on my plate.
No Matter What Happens
It’s been a wet sleeve of a week. Taxes,
jury duty, and hope on her knees. But
somewhere waits the first marigold bites
of spring. Somewhere, a child is learning the letters
of their name. No matter what happens,
you’re still you. Still know how to a white-knuckle
a dream. Lose yourself in a coastal view. It’s winter
in California; the difference between
light and dark is thirty degrees, is how
you talk to yourself. When no one is looking,
you stand at the edge of the dock, toes over
a watery blue. Across this cold
is a mountain. Nothing between you
and your future but fog.
I’m a Sucker for Poems that End with Spring
Because what I think they’re saying is happy almost.
Happy new dirt and taller sun. Happy unwinter.
Happy divorce, or degree, or old self you’ve shedded
like a rattlesnake to become. Happy tulips and hunger
and red lipstick at spin class on Wednesday. Happy licking
Crème brûlée off your middle finger. Happy repeating the word No
(no, no, no) like the gorgeous punctuation you’ve fought for.
Happy more of this, please and you already know my answer.
Happy bright fucking purple. Every fear has a finish line.
Happy rain and petals, and even if it took twenty years
and a few extra dress sizes, happy answering your own prayer.
Peace can be a habit, too. Happy today is it. Is here. So kiss them
already. Tell your dead mom your book just sold.
That your daughter’s laugh sounds like a rock tumbler
smoothing earth into orange calcite. The geese fly
backward through decay and daisies. We trudge through
teeth and spit and promises of one day. Until it arrives.
For All Those Who Have Been Waiting
to open the champagne, dusty with
patience. To drink the desert. Bite
the neck of someone new. To quit
the job, the man, the lie you swig
from every winter. The standstill
traffic of excuse. Tomorrow is
always so hungry. Sometimes, even
your own life forgets to call you
back. The sun sets somewhere
warmer and teal. Maybe the trick is
believing enough to keep
opening—doors, prayers, avocados,
arms, and elevators. To keep
pushing the loud button of want,
until the future becomes a
dance floor beneath your feet.
I Want To Stop Wasting Time Thinking About Wasted Time
Always in such a rush to hurry up and live.
Scribble joy off my To-Do list. How American
to want it all and still say more. Don’t I have
every ounce I thirsted for: quiet water, endless
ink, a little love on both sides of the bed.
I want to be less scared and more
salt water. To taste the wind
and never beg it to stay.
How You Respond to the Rain
Water can drown. Can float.
Interpretation makes anyone
a god. It’s pouring outside.
The world owes me a drink.
