End of the year

This is what happens when the year ends:
as the champagne pops we know
we are now plagued by memory.

Let him kiss your soles

Let him kiss the soles of your feet
with a wet lip that trembles to your white, white ankle
this river

Luca, Luca

Over bent-over forks
she turns to me, whispers
it is Luca, Loo-ka,
an Italian pronunciation

My Luca came two weeks early
he is now the age of two wars
at twelve, normal, bilingual
safely loved

I had seen twelve year olds
carrying buckets of water
when the river failed them
when the butterflies grabbed their tongues

hands left at doorsteps
bodies upon bodies
while in me, Luca
grew and stretched

like palm trees of Basra
sing-songs of mornings
where rocked children
slept half-naked in mud

to protect is a verb strong
by its recollection of making
of your body a house, a shelter
of ears, mouths hushing in prayer

a change of silver to dark
as thing fell, early gifts
my eyes adjust quicker to darkness
easier to his breath;
I have called him Luca
because he brings forth
the light

The ceremony of flame

In front of the fire flames, 

lights up: candles, faces, old photographs

cups, last year's old wig, the balloons torn over twice 

things that no longer concern us

the pen questions

What if, no one reads
what I keep in scribbles
this has been on the pens mind

might then writers stop pinning ink
or wasting paper and trees?

Premature birth

He was born premature
but didn't want to acknowledge
darkness comes before light

at the wrong hour he was born
but he knew, it was for the best
to be out in the world

than be blown like an aborted idea
on a mid-winter night

A northern star at hand

Catch a north star in your hand
let it point the way
sparkling, this Christmas
birth of the King, baffelment of others