They say raw oysters are an aphrodisiac.

All I know is that they are sensuous.

One can’t eat them without thinking of something fine, pleasurable, scrumptious.

I’m at the beach.

I put my feet in. I ate raw oysters. I drank a beer.

I had my palm read.

I’ve only done this twice in my life.

Once, several years ago when my heart was breaking and I didn’t think I could go on. Living.

The second time, an hour ago.

The reader was dark and short and is named Mrs. Dewberry.

I asked her how she knew how to practice her trade. She said her grandmother did it, and then her mother, and now she.

It’s a generational psychic ability–or a sham– or a combination.

I like what she said. She gave me hope.

Is that so terrible?

St. Simon’s

June 29, 2013

Golden isle
You beckon me again this year
I am on my way.

Soon, I will walk in your surf,
Eat the shrimp born in your marsh

I will dive like a dolphin in your saltwater
Come up for air
And dive again.

I will rest the small of my back against your sand.

Soon, I will cross your bridge
Shout at the top of my lungs
Smell your pungent earth

I will cross you on my bicycle
Climb your live oaks
Photograph your Spanish moss
Dangling in the breeze.

Soon, my muscles will relax
My legs will tan
I will hug your shore
Search for starfish

Soon, my children will come
We will play Charades
Read by the pool
Eat sandwiches when we’re ready

Soon, St. Simon’s,
I am on my way
Your Mass I will say
Golden, golden island.

Breasts Are Problems

June 29, 2013

Breasts are problems.

My doctor said so, as I lay on the examination table and he made circles feeling for lumps.

How can something so nurturing become a killer?


Jacob, Can You Hear Me?

June 28, 2013

Jacob, can you hear me?

I’m talking to you

I’m bent on answers.

Who was the man you wrestled with?
Did it hurt?
How is your hip?
How was the stone pillow?
Tell me about the ladder.
Did you get what you were looking for?

Jacob, can you hear me?

Tracing Raindrops

June 27, 2013

I sit in my car
Tucked in from a summer storm
The rain is comfort
Sheets come in waves on the rooftop
I trace a raindrop as it slides down the car window

Once, as a young child
Coming back from my uncle’s wedding in Alabama
I sat in the backseat
Daddy drove
Mom napped
There were three of us then,
Bare legs touched

I had the window on the left

My eyes mesmerized by the unpredictable pattern of the raindrops.

Daddy smoked
The rain fell

I sat like children do
Tracing the streaks
Wondering when drops would spill over
Join others on their way down

Now, I am grown
My children are grown

I sit in my car
Trace raindrops with my fingers.

Waiting on the Mail

June 27, 2013

Today could be a big day

I never know what rectangled envelope, or square, will hide amongst slick paper advertisements.

Yesterday, it was an orange card from a friend. A random note, telling me she’ll be here for the month of July–all the way from California! Yippee!

Today, I expect cash from my Ex. He’s good about filling in gaps when I have them. His writing is small like the envelope.

Tomorrow, it could be YES from a poetry contest. You have won first place!

The next day, who knows? An invitation to a wedding or baby shower, a confession from a new reader of my blog, a note of encouragement from my mom, a thank you for a funeral..

I’m waiting on the Big One. The mail that will change my life.

“We have decided to publish your book.”

“Would you join me for dinner?”

I pray with my shoes off
Step out of sandals in church
Eyes closed
Hands raised or palms up
Ready to praise

I pray in my bare feet
Or stocking feet
Or tights
I remove the hard outer layer
To reveal the sole inside

I pray with my feet on the ground
Stand squarely on earth

I pray with my my shoes off
Every day of the week


A Smidgen of a Rainbow

June 25, 2013

Yesterday, I saw a smidgen of a rainbow.

A small section which emerged between clouds, iridescent in blues and violet and red. Contrasted against a slate background.

What’s significant is that I prayed yesterday to see a rainbow.

I had to wait all day and then, driving home from a funeral, I looked up over the interstate and there was abnormal color.

Sometimes, we don’t get the whole arc–just a section.

It’s the way of life to be content with small things.

Fransiscan mysticism tells us that we are what we are seeking.

I like that.

I like knowing that I am Companion, Peace, Energy.

A Reiki Master recently laid her hands over me.

She felt no Aura from the waist down.

That makes me sad, but I get it.

I am dead there out of necessity.

And yet, there is this hope that I am enough.

I need no other.

I am Other.

Leather-Bound Notebook

June 21, 2013

I had lunch with an old boyfriend Tuesday.

We met at Panera Bread, Emory Village.

My mother warned to watch out. “It’s a slippery slope” (and he’s married).

But there was none of that.

Just sweet recollection, a shared sonnet, the familiarity of a journalist’s leather-bound notebook.

I remember it well in Providence, the White Mountains of New Hampshire where we climbed onto the roof and watched the sunrise.

I sketched. You paused from your active mind for a while to be in mystical unknowing, the cloud come close.

Now, you teach in Virginia.

I serve coffee in Dallas (and visit the dying).

We’ve suffered, and yet we’ve thrived.

Thank you, old boyfriend, for all those intellectual letters, for literary and spiritual conversation. For showing me a good time, a fleeting courtship.

Your cheeks are rosy now, your face luminous. Did you know that?

You have worn well, like your notebook.