the rest of the Paint chip poems

Copper Cloud

Dying sun catches,

lingering on the fog bank

setting worlds aflame.

Periwinkle Dream

Called “Joy of the Ground”

flower petals make my bed

as I dream, waking.

Snipped Chive

My father always insisted

on using what the garden gave,

Rosemary from a busted barrel

leaves from the Bay tree that overhangs

and brushes my window on windy nights,

cobblers made from mixed bramble berries.

I remember him showing me how to make

his breakfast of champions

(which was, in no uncertain terms, not pizza.)

A flour tortilla, so unlike anything

his Italian Mama would have used,

butter the skillet,

Mom only buys Irish butter now,

grass fed cows, you know.

Crack an egg, and beat it with a chopstick

then add cheese, the good stuff, mozzarella,

sausage, already cooked, the grease saved for later

a little milk but only--just there, that.

Let it pool in the tortilla, and in the moment you cover

the steaming pan, add water, let it hiss

and turn down the firebright heat.

Then slip it out, crackling, Dad’s hands on mine

onto a plate, folded, the yellow-white

oozing out the sides,

and on top of it,

snipped chives from the window box

This is what home is.

New York City Winter

1909, December.

The snow is grey under our

rag-wrapped feet

boots more hole and newsprint

than anything else.

But we march, anyway,

sisters besides sisters

even if our hair, eyes,

skin, mother tongue,

do not match,

our spirits do.

We are the fervent girls,

the Union daughters,

walking the picketline with hand-lettered signs

and no coats, fingers stiff with ice.

But we are tinder,

burst into flame,

and turning to ash.

The cold and hunger weigh

down on us,

The bosses and union leaders  look

down on us,

what can girls do

to change the world?

What can they do but bleed,

freeze on the picket line?

But we remember our oath

and the words in so many languages

promised us:

this is the Golden Medine,

the new Promised Land.

In America, there is a better life,

even if our boots are filled with snow

even if the winter wind steals our breath.

We have voices, here, and our lives mean something,

they must mean something.

In America, they do not let you burn

Cathedral Morning

The pale rose of dawn

filters through art-glass windows

figures of Saints and the Madonna and Child

centuries old and still

glorious.

This is not my church, but still the spirit

of Welcome, of a Holy Father’s arms

is here,  an ocean away from home.

Tile, cool, glossy with age

echoes back my footsteps,

as silent as a child in wonder can make them,

staring at  niches filled with relics

and ivory-colored statues, features worn away

by prayerful fingers.

There is a peace here,

in a little known cathedral,

somewhere in Italy, nothing famous

only a few parishioners here this early

in the morning.

Sacred has no limits,

spreading beyond old, solid doors

like the sun’s thin morning light.

I follow.

Canyon Hush

If someone shouts “ echo”

One more time

So help me,

I will leave you here

to bake like clay

in the Utah sun,

and you can get your own way back

forget about the ice cream

forget your feet

just look

and hush.

It took thousands of years to

carve this out

so you can wait a minute.

Norwegian Night

There are four secret passages

in the Canadian ambassadorial mansion

in Norway.
I know, because I found three of them
poking around in pantries and libraries

late in the night--

A jetlagged five-year old

should never be underestimated

in the best of times.
I held the cookie tin in my lap
with my new best friend

and we watched the sun

turn the ink-sky grey

and rose.