barnburner

barnburner [BAHRN-bur-ner], noun:

Something that is highly exciting or impressive

Barnburner, you brought down 

our house. No, rather, you 
rearranged it, changed it 
from the inside out. The younger

me would barely be able to recognize
itself anymore. The rooms 

have changed, the floor, the ceiling.
The floor is now the ceiling. It's skin 

stripped and varnished. You put the kitchen

where I used to make my papers work,
replaced the window I used 

to let my mind wander out of
to where the fish in the pond you dug,
placed stones around, now swim
and pander amorously for my mother 

and the empty bench that falls 

apart slowly with time waits

under the apple tree you haven't 

yet uprooted.

fard

fard, [fahrd] noun

to apply cosmetics

Funny how farding sounds so much like 
farting. But isn't it inappropriate
the way some women do it?
You watch them in the mornings
on the subway or bus
making those wide-open faces:
ridiculous mouths yawning,
eyes agape. These women
attack themselves with wands
like miniature, bristled trees
and pointed pencils like javelins.
If you want to be seen, I see you.
I cannot help but look at you.
Your queer expressions mesmerize

like actors in black and white movies. 

When the subway car jolts, will you

juggle your eyeball before it lands
on the floor? Or will your hands fly
to your mouth, painted with surprise
and shaped with a harlot's O?

germinal

germinal \ JUR-muh-nl \, adjective:

being in the earliest stage of development

Being in the earliest stage of development,

I do not judge you a veteran of my heart.

You do not know the way it chimes 

When the wind blows and the sky is turning gray.

How its pipes are like brass cylinders that hang

Around the wooden center upon which they bang.

But being in the earliest stage of development

They do not bang yet. No.

The wind from the mountains has not yet sunk

Into this valley where my heart waits to be moved

Hovering above the un-mowed ground

Only the grasses sway minutely in the calmness.

In this earliest stage of us, I will not warn you

Of the gales that can not merely be called wind,

Nor of the storms, or the wailing in the night of the coyotes

That circle the foundations where I live.
For now, just listen to the hesitant hoot of the owls,

Tucked into their branches in the star-studded evening.

obtuse

obtuse \uhb-TOOS\ (adjective):

1. not quick or alert in perception, feeling, or intellect.

2. not sharp, acute, or pointed; blunt in form.

3. (of a leaf, petal, etc.) rounded at the extremity.

Being only a few, tall trees in the yard

There wasn't much for us to hide under.

Only one tall evergreen, one bristly mother

With her skirt that dragged the ground.

Being too much a cold, unwelcoming thing,

We never ventured into her folds

More than once before learning our lesson -

The kind only nature can teach so well.

No, we mostly stayed in the shadows

Of the fencerow, tree-lined, swampy, lush,

Where birds fluttered inside the nestles

Of briar bushes, and hairy bogs protruded

Like stepping stools. They led  to small clearings, 

Areas of sudden openness, as if the woods

Had created a room for us to exist in alone,

Where we could not hear our mothers.

We were never supervised, you and I.

Hard to believe now, a girl and a boy, so left

To their own devices. How like animals,

We were, digging in the mud. What little

Explorers, building forts out of pillows

And blankets. Places we could hide a whole

Afternoon. How curious we were then. How

Much nature had given us to discover.

We've Lost That Squeaky Feeling (another filler)

These clean, neat wooden slats
That make up the floor remind me
Of Mohonk's main dining room, how
Expansive it felt when empty, how
Small when filled with people
And the talk and the clatter
They brought with them, how
I cleaned, swept those floors, how
The sound my shoes made
Echoed across the boards,
How different the old, lazy linoleum
Of a diner can be without sound.
How empty our booth
Just inside and to the right of the door.
How I waited with a glass of water, cold,
Ice floating at the top, like I could never do
As a child, how I dove, though, how I
Positioned my knobby body on the long,
White board, how I arched my arms to slice
Through air, through water, through
To the vinyl floor. How I rubbed
The dents and the dips in its skin
With my fingertips, how I imagined
I heard squeaking. Like how a poet can keep
Caressing a difficult word, trying to eek
Something out of it - and fail.

(a filler poem)

From streetcar to streetcar in my flowered dress, I go.

On a Monday with other like-wise women, and their six,

seven bags of assorted sizes and ten, colored bracelets

At their jingling wrists; one lady holds a kitten in a paper

Bag. It mews, high-pitched, sad it is not yet a lion. One

Woman in pants-like-a-skirt, shows off her slim, angular

Waist; her long, thin legs, a clown’s ridiculous stilts upon

Which she is proudly poised. Again, I tell you, it is Monday,

Which every awe-woken body knows. All the people in their

Headphones, drowning out the quiet morning; all the silent,

Sleepy people, whose tired eyes read from translucent

Screens or from paper, bound together with string and glue,

Handled, finger-flipped, pressed close to the chest only when

Words make the heart flutter like a bird caught in a tiger’s

Bony throat. The mouth opens and it flies out, singing. The doors

Close behind me with a ding-dong, the sound clowns make

From their big, red noses, as they crowd into the tiny car,

Echoing a wistful loneliness that isn’t quite melancholy.

irriguous

ir·rig·u·ous [ih-rig-yoo-uhs] adjective

Archaic . well-watered, as land.

Growing up, my mother had no green
Thumb, although we had a garden, a 3-
Acre yard, everything we touched, wilted,
Turned yellow, no matter how well-watered.
Sometimes, even the well went dry
Filling the pool, forgetting the hose was still
Running - a stream, a clear tongue forever
Lapping into the surface, losing itself
In the deeper water. Wet into wet, one body
Into another. I dove into it, but mine
Stayed the same. My water, trapped
Inside my tight, child's skin, hitting
The bottom, bouncing off with my feet,
Resilient. Bobbing. My own little island.