The Man Who Taught
Me Harleys
For the second of passing
you stretch your gloved
hand to change lanes,
wrist limp to compensate
a sixty MPH wind and
finger pointing, black
sunglasses turned away.
In the stutter, indrawn
breath, I am behind you
on your bike, our hips
dip together, slanting
that Harley across all
the solid yellow lines
everywhere. My breasts
against your leather,
right hand sifting sun
sprinkling your shoulder.
Even as I lean to brush
lips through your tangled
hair, to press the soft
nape of your neck in
the rising smell of
hot oil, damp asphalt,
I am back on my bike
caught in this exhale,
already passed in
the opposite direction.
Midwest Thunder Storm
Evening shifts with thunder heads
like the bell of a wine glass that
shatters from the wire fine pitch.
This ceiling presses flat plate of light
which presses its seal to the ground as
the blunted blades of grass prickle
my bare feet. And Christ, I will hold
still with the redwing blackbirds,
with sparrows. Hold my hands still,
to stop their reaching and watch as
the breathless air carouses my skin.
The Birthday Wish
Sucked deep in lungs,
blue, blue flung
against chambers of
a knocking heart,
it breaks in rapids,
mixing capillaries,
circling metatarsals.
Bend, then bend again
like a dead end bend,
gathering like a gale,
red, redder, reddest,
streaks back for lungs,
then bursts out past
the hope snapping
ring of candles,
past the lit hope,
yellow light circled
faces lined with
their own silent
wish. Ah, it explodes
leaping into corners,
ricocheting off where
molding meets ceiling,
and crouches, trembles
for the door to swing
open. Then, breaking
against blackest night,
reaching and climbing,
speeding and climbing,
reaching to surge
even farther
than you or I,
even farther,
until cupped against
the curve of dreams,
this wish is alive.
