prayer

take my many wants

balled tightly in my fist

pry each finger loose

and shake them out

like cold ashes

leave me empty-handed

that I might grasp

what is true

Red Cups

I was always the girl at parties

holding the same red cup all night

uncomfortable as a sunburn under denim

watching the Munchian faces scream-laugh

at some joke I could never understand

feeling all the more outside for not wanting to

Who are all of these people?

Did their dads ever tie dental floss

around their loose teeth and slam the door?

Have they ever cried over

the bare bones of a bird in the woods?

Would they hold their breath

to hear the gentle breeze better?

How I wish I could dump out

this warm waxy brew sitting stagnate

in my super-sized red plastic Solo

and fill it with cool soft mountain water

how the hint of ancient earth thrills my tongue

how just the thought of it quenches my soul

in the barren desert of this over-full house

Power outage

So this is how they did it

for almost all of human history

flickering fire alive in the night

thoughtful dinner by candlelight

soft conversation by the hearth

Electricity has made

chained children of our nights

shouting, yet unable to move

as we watch still, flat screens

instead of the dancing flames

How to survive a hurricane

Two frightened dogs, two overfed cats,

one fearless husband and you --

huddled in the concrete basement

taking refuge on the fold-out couch

the one that smells like neglect

the one that feels like a rock quarry

the one that you can't believe

you've allowed guests to sleep on

or at least try to sleep on

you now know that it is not easy

especially when the wind outside

is trying to crush your house

like a Coors can on a frat boy's head

You've never been a beer drinker

and yet for some strange reason

you begin to crave one now

but don't dare go upstairs

for fear of falling trees

and exploding windows

like you witnessed on the local news

just before the power went out

Of course, without electricity

the beer is probably warm by now

and warm beer is not good anytime

much less at a time like this

when the end feels so near

besides, you would never choose

a pale summer ale for your last drink

before your darling red cottage

was carried off into the murky grey

You would choose a Wildwood cream soda

the kind you could only get

from the magnet-covered fridge

in the tiny yellow and brown kitchen

at your Nana and Papa's house

the kind with the bright sky blue can

covered with vibrant green trees

friendly upright pines

not the broken and hurled maples

thrown like javelins by an angry Irene

And suddenly, having chosen a last drink

that could only be obtained

if you were to travel across the country

to sleepy Highland, Indiana

and then across time to the early eighties,

you begin to feel calmly confident

that you will survive this storm after all