MY VERSION OF A PANIC ROOM
I’m crossing the parking lot barefoot
on a blistering hot summer’s day,
and, according to the agony on my face,
it’s like walking on burning coals
and I’m no fakir or faker either.
I’m surprised the cars don’t melt.
And then there’s the rough stones.
The shards of glass to step around.
I’m doing my best to go native
but civilization won’t hear of it.
By the time my soles rest comfortably
on sand, they’re as raw as the dialogue
coming from the couple ahead of me,
woman in bikini, guy in speedos,
more cuss words than on a HBO series episode.
He strikes her. She thumps him back.
It’s that searing parking lot transformed
into people who can’t get along.
He gave some beach bunny the eye.
She hopes he gets a melanoma.
He’s had enough of her whining.
Her mother was right about him all along.
I thought I’d made it to paradise
but their fury is just something more
for me to suffer my way through
as are the lesser irritants
like running, screaming kids
and globs of jellyfish bobbing
just beyond where the waves break.
But I’ve made it this far
so nothing will stop me
from flopping down in that salty water,
letting its coolness foam over me,
as I embrace the blue nothingness around me,
despite the near collision with the oar-stroke arm
of a body surfer and the splashing of young lovers
who, according to the gravity of aging,
will someday become the squabbling, bare-knuckle pair
farther up the beach.
I carve out my own space, unchained, unencumbered.
Every now and then, I even feel the world’s love.
Cool, refreshed, no anger, no complaints,
I forgive the parking lot, Mr. Rocky and Mrs. Apollo Creed
and every other obstacle and annoyance,
that hindered but couldn’t stop me reaching my destination.
That doesn’t happen often.
But waves rolling up the sand, retreating into the ocean –
that happens all the time.
THEY'VE FOUND A BODY
Someone's being hauled out of the lake.
It's a woman judging by the matted blonde hair.
Rescue's doing the dirty work.
Uniformed cops flick open notebooks
but they don't write anything.
Yellow tape holds back the crowd.
Most are simply curious.
A few are concerned because
they can't account for everyone they know.
So was it an accident? somebody asks.
Or suicide? Or maybe even murder?
That last word runs through the onlookers like a flu bug
They're all very careful in whatever they do.
No way, they'd ever end their life.
But there's one or two out there
who might...given the circumstances...
if they'd had a little too much to drink...
and a gun was handy...or a knife...or...
death is fascinating but not when it's personal.
Then someone cries out, "Oh my god, it's Sarah!"
There's much relief from all who did not know her.
One cop writes the word "Sarah" in his book
and then goes off in search of a last name.
The police doctor arrives
at the same time as Sarah's mother.
A quick examination by the MD
says, "Looks like a drowning."
Sarah's mother has a lifetime
to come up with the real reason she died.
The body's taken away.
Cops spread out into the neighborhood.
The crowd dissipates into family groups,
safe in their houses,
awaiting the arrival of the law,
already prepared to deny they know anything.
Sarah's aunt is on her way
to take care of the grieving parent.
Sarah's best friend cries alone in her room.
Her younger brother can't make any sense of it.
There's not enough folks affected
to stop the world from turning.
THE SOIL AND THE BODIES WITHIN
The soil has memories,
but lacks conscience.
It keeps its secrets without judgment,
cradling whatever we give it:
the peacefully stilled heart,
the skull fractured by a sudden, brutal light.
All of it becomes the same dark currency
in that blind economy beneath our feet.
Down there, the earth works its way
through flesh and calcium,
turning us into something useful,
a richness, a murmur of minerals,
and asks nothing but time.
Trees grab what they can
and react accordingly.
Some lean into the wind
as though burdened
by crumbs of flesh and bone.
Others stand straight, immaculate,
offering no commentary at all.
They have a voice
but it cannot be heard.
So their true testimony is gestures.
Which is more than the soil provides.
Steadfast and silent…
it eats away
but devours nothing.
RISKY BUSINESS
It’s another night where I put
my life at risk. I leave my
room, dodge bullets. I step
out onto the sidewalk,
avoid, by inches, the
drunk driver who swerves his
car off the road and through
a storefront. At my favorite
bar, a swinging bottle brushes
by my ear, hits somebody
else’s head. The woman
on the stool to my left has
poisoned three husbands
already. Luckily, I strike
up a conversation with the
woman on my right.
On my way home, I
step around some guy who
the cops are beating to a pulp
for looking at them funny.
And, to think, I look funny
at cops all the time. So
far, they haven’t noticed.
I make it back to my room,
curl up in bed, pretend the
pillow likes me and the sheets
are kind. But my dream is a
nightmare where I’m pursued
by a three-headed, six armed,
crocodile-toothed bloodthirsty beast.
Come morning, I awake unscathed.
But the hunt is nowhere near over.
WOMAN WITH MY NAME
Woman – with the face of dawn
but a heart of dusk –
you slip through the brush like a dingo
with my name between your teeth.
Drop it. Drop it now.
You don’t fool me -
I’ve seen that grin catch fire
under a savage sun,
your tongue flicking tall tales,
your heart a mongrel dog,
never to be tamed.
Listen – my pleas have faded
but my orders still thud sharp and loud
as axes ringbarking trees.
And my laughter - sharp as crow caws -
can handle any cynicism, even yours.
Besides, my thoughts were hands
in another lifetime.
They’re made for grabbing ghosts,
for shaking truth out of liars.
Oh by the way,
a woman could choke on a stolen name.
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