Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

You Were Given

You were sewed into me, like the initials
Mother fastened to my childhood
sweater.  Even beneath
a pile of scarves and mittens,
the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking
package wrapped in skin, a growing
tremor, a terrifying wonder—and I was
your living envelope, your
place of origin.

You adorned me, stretched me,
and I was never happier.  But I made
a lonely decision: you would be
given; my arms would scarcely hold
you.  Before then,

we walked among blooming apples:
light green leaves fringed in pink;
discreet and prudent bees; my intentions
never questioned by the lively trees.

I spied a wedding at the pavilion:
bridesmaids and groomsmen smiling,
smoking perfect cigarettes
by the colonnade, pictures to be taken.

I pined to reach and pinch them,  to
stretch their skin and beat them,
to syncopate their laughter
with my wisdom.  But we kept

our cadence and our rhythm, like the rain
that fell as your due date came and went.
You finally appeared—and the rising
river crested—little hidden-to-me girl.

Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left
me wrestling your trace; your vestige
burned where you made the leap
from burdened skies to bent and wild boughs.

Fall arrived.  The park blustered
without you.  Rough oaks hardened
as their bright leaves released.
I bit my lips and tasted flesh torn
by my teeth.  I prayed

for autumn colors to depart
without pity.  I prayed to be like fired
pottery—no cracks, no weakness.
I prayed until an unforeseen reply
rolled toward me,

until an infant cry reached me
and scraped like a shard.
There was a sudden flash and strike;
I shuddered and waited
for the rumble that never came

as, somehow, I asked
the baby’s name.  A tiny hand stretched
forth.  The Mother hushed her parcel
and I spread myself over the stroller
like a faded, threadbare canopy.

Motorcycle Memories: One Day The Graceful Rider Caught Me

I remember the asphalt: how it felt when
I colored outside the lines on a bike.
I remember the rowdy night-spot
Where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget
A full-leather form, the turns,
The quick and careless course, or the
Fateful blur on the periphery.
The hardtop hit like hard luck times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
Made sudden emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but the ditch stood
Close by; the pavement took a toll.
I think of parking lots that demanded
Wheelies: I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, spills and crashes—
Some lay it down, but mine were wrecks.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I wouldn’t slow the pace. Then
One day the graceful rider caught me.
How he chased! How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors, and
When I looked, I shattered. But
To every piece he whispered;
For each shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

His hands, like living stone, never tired.
He made pursuit his standard.
I rolled with bent desires, but
He anticipated every deviation. He
Broke my bones, then mended.
He determined my route. I fled
Until he pierced and purchased, until
He caught me with the look of love—
A look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees. Now,
I listen as gears make changes,
As rubber on roadway moves me,
As I approach new signs and places,
As chain and sprocket go humbly
Beneath me, and narrow roads unwind.