On the Crossbar

* * *

I remember that morning in Long Beach,

sitting on the crossbar of my dad’s bike,

the two of us carried through time by the sun and the wind.

* * *

The Light Under the Door

They are in light.
I am in darkness.
I see the thin strip
of light
under the door.
It is not enough.
I am new
to this world.
I do not know
there is a tomorrow.
I only know
they have cast me away.
I cry for them to come
but they don’t come.
I rock towards them
in my little boat.
They find me
almost at the door.
They tie my cot
to the radiator.
I rock so hard,
I pull it
from the wall.
I am the will to live.
I am a plant
reaching through dark soil
towards the sun.
I will burst through
the hard shell of myself.
I will even burst
through concrete.
Include me.
Include me.
Include me
in the circle of light.

On The Menu At The Witch's House

She Will Be A River

The father drives,

distant as a mountain, 

silent as a mountain is silent,

rich with the secrets 

that sit beside him.

The daughter asks:

Where were you born? 

What’s your favourite food? 

He answers with facts, 

each word a lie.

She hears whispers 

from the empty seats:

He was born 

on the outskirts of death.

His heart longs 

for honeycake at midnight.

She has decided: 

she will be a river, 

will rush along 

through the open fields 

like an oracle, 

telling everyone her secrets. 

They will look 

into her clear waters 

and see the pebbles 

and the stones, 

the piles of ash 

and the mounds of gold.