building towns (a kind memory of the start)

I wrote this poem in a shack set on a grassy knoll last July...

On a rainy afternoon
last summer
I rode my bicycle to her mother's house
with flowers
wrapped in a plastic bag.
She closed the door behind me,
and in the living room
threw me a towel,
told me to get warm
while she made tea.

That night
while we fell asleep
I read her spanish poetry
she said I could never
read right;

I don't care, lady,
you know the meaning of love
in every language
and could pick it out of a dirty river
like a boom-chaser
in a gold rush
all tall cedars and firs around you
while you wade in
just above your hips
movin your fingertips
through the water
lookin for heartbeats
and I bet you know
the meanin of that too,

and with a smile
she nodded,
stretched her legs out
across my lap
and reached her small hand
towards my cheek.

I might have kissed her, then,
if I could just remember.
But here the memory
closes in on itself

though I can still feel
the rain
on the window,
her breath in my ear
and the bed sheets,
like a sleeping sadness
pulled over our shoulders.

In this moment
I am softly awake.

With my last threads
I'm weaving her a refuge
where she can lay down her love
and finally
let it rest,
not worry
about that baby crying.
I hold it carefully
and whisper,

dream sweetly,
love,
it's warm here.




It was the tongues of fire feature page poem last Thursday, made all good and good-lookin' by my good-lookin' good friend Kristy, and handed out at the door. All fancy and finished, it looked like this: