Today I

Today I Throw the cat off my lap Give the finger to a driver Glare at the cashier Today I Snap at my lover Snip at the idiot who blocks my driveway Snipe at the neighbor's barking dogs And your perpetual smile? I'd like to pinch it off and flush it. Today, on the inside, where the battles between The Buddha and the Beast rage, The Beast has won.

Nothing Personal

I ask my mother What was it like when I was born? I don't remember, she says. They drugged us good in those days. But I didn't want you. Nothing personal. Your grandmother wanted me to be a singer So I went to New York, sang in some cafes. Your father wanted me to be a mother So I bought those awful tent tops And in the ninth month, tied the hair up Off my neck so as not to mind the heat. But what was it like when I was born? I had to stop looking in the mirror, she says, Then she pauses, takes a drag of her cigarette. Yeah. Too bad. Too bad. She looks at her long slender fingers. I wanted to play the piano.

The divorce

After I got divorced I spent time Being angry and sad. In between, I tried out pens. Ball points. Felt tips. When I'd gone through The ones I had at home I went to the store. Appearing then on the kitchen table Were Bics in abundance. They were blue ink, black ink, Fine line, smooth grip. Some had clickers, some had caps. Some I twisted with a certain Malicious satisfaction. Once, I pulled three renegades from my purse. First, a green ink ball point. Too boring. Next, a fountain pen. Too much potential to bleed. The last was clear plastic And I thought, at least there'll be no surprises When the ink is gone.

The speed of light

What is the speed At which yellow sunlight Travels the spider's single thread Back and forth, a finger On the string of a cello, Sliding from one tree's trunk To another's branch? There are questions I ask When I silence the alarm And turn my back on the clock To cheat the day's constant eye. I stare out the open window From under my red wool blanket, The grey cat curled up against my belly. So many questions tumble Slowly through still spaces, As I watch the cloudless sky sharpen colder And hear the green leaves Rustled red by the breeze While the sunlight becomes the thread.

Footsteps

I look out from my second story window over the field of grass that still needs cutting. There in the new dew of morning is the path your footsteps made earlier. I smile at the surprise of them up from a place I cannot see from here, from behind the apple trees fenced against the deer passed the end of summer yellow leaves of the squash on around the patch of leafless tomato plants still holding a handful of lush red fruit. The prints are steady and evenly paced. No dull matted down moment in the glistening moisture where you might have stopped and turned a bit to wonder about coyotes or seen a deer, statue still. I climb back into bed imagining you with your head down your steps with single purpose making your way to the coffee at the other side of the door. I breathe deep — glad I put off mowing.