White Catamaran

The first room was rows
of pretty or dull but
holy objects,
packed onto shelves high
as the tin-tiled ceiling,
window, doors dumbly breaking
the books' pattern
in a room where
no furniture interrupted
the space.

I'd shuffle across the hardwood floor, wind
into the study. The weighty desk posed
in perfect diagonal from the steadiness
of the room,
examining entrants. Serene—
holding my father's tools:
dense stack of untouched yellow draft paper,
    smelled like dough,
thin stack—
    faces pressed down, hiding
    their words;
chipped cup
fat
with severe yellow
    pencils
    and
    white eraser—pencils whose
         hats of brushes whisked away
         the flaked remains
         of mistakes;
pencil sharpener
    proudly suctioned,
    its bent crank a broken wing;
creased sheet of correction paper, tiny letters
    bitten away by metal teeth.
The typewriter, rough brown metallic finish
    forest green scarred keys,
dominated the metal stand,
smirked
    at publicity photos
    and posters announcing former successes.

First the desk,
peering over the top,
remembering
fat and thin lines I'd drawn with such pencils
    on yellow pages
where the words were wrong,
    so they were given to me.
Then the window overlooking the empty driveway
guarded by the hedge spotted with
poisonous berries.
Side window—only the boring
neighbor's shady lawn.
My window
looked down
over the bay, sun
bouncing on choppy water, sprinkling
over the lawn outlined
by the red sea wall,
framing me in the window
of the giant house, alone
and imagining.

Daddy's words never danced for me until
I left that room far behind.

Chin leaning on window sill, knees
pressed into floor,
I sailed over the bay
in a sparkling white catamaran—
smelled like shaved wood,
typewriter ink, and
a father who'd be right back soon.


Swamp

Knotted roots scar
narrow path,
snaking through
tree corridor.
Left, blue reflection ripples
calm over wide water.
Right, brown-green stillness lurks.
Sharp leaves pierce dense air,
curved branches
vines tight
sway up
while root logs sleep together,
silt cradle.
Bubbles crawl up, silent,
lace wings hum, drag
spindly legs, scoring water.
Ferns cast lines each direction,
obscuring edges, hiding shores.

Two planks span stream
glugging fresh to foul.
Stand midway
Feet bare apart
Pond behind
Swamp in front
Hear crow screech warning
Peer down decay's thickness
Steep in mossy wetness
Lips open, Sip earth's blood.


Mars

a dot.
drifting through the lens.
you stare then
step away—
thoughts detach,
float urgently up
wind through constellations
fill the sky—
you can't hold them,
your hands in front of you
on earth,
and up there,
another planet.

distanced from your day—
errands and cares
your night—
dreams and worries.
been there forever,
magically gliding
perpetually spinning.

sunrises glimpse
shadows of your end,
teaspoons of
terror dribbled into your cracks.
hanging from
Casseopia's W—
universe mystery,
dripping from dippers—
no one
will save you, no one
can.

even if its moons aren't
visible
in your telescope,
Mars persists
moon—yellow above you
sliding into angry red,
there, always, for
and after you.