D & F Tower

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As stated matter-of-factly
hundreds of times, this tower
(brick-not-steel, pointed
and dominant) was the tallest
building in Denver when

at age twenty-one, like the
pioneers two generations back
(two generations back from me)
my great-aunt Frances walked
through downtown (1937)

We enter it for the first time in
my life tonight, year twelve of
our young marriage. “Finally,”
you say, “something you haven’t
already done,” opening the door for me.

Did she see it? Painted crown molding
on the ceilings, intricately laid
white marble (smooth and cool
against the skin on a summer night),
architecture from a bygone era.

Would she care about the cabaret
burlesque show that emanates from
the basement stairwell? Or did she know,
with her domineering, independent shoes
that carried her here from Kansas,

that, just like the steel-concrete-glass
skyscrapers that have tried to trump this,
it still stands in a changing world,
here we stand in a changing world,
its strength (our strength) unwilling to give up
its place in the heart of the city (of love).

My Moon

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the music has ended
(crickets are singing now)
and there are no cicadas here

their tiny legs call out to us
in the deep of night and the
light shining on my belly?

it is like that night under the moon
white sand encircling our toes
where i walked to the water alone

you remember. how anger and
longing threw us apart, how i
imagined a trip there alone, with them.

in a perfect circle, the moon
led me along the beach, wind
whispering the truth to me

we didn’t have electricity
a bathroom or a camper,
nothing but haste and desire

i think of this now only because
of the songs you have chosen
now ended, given in to insects

i will carry them (the music of
our lives) to sleep along with my moon.
i would be lost without it.

Kingfisher

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along this suburban street,
my narrow tires sideswipe a kingfisher
hopping along the gutter
(an algae-encrusted pond
is just over the bank)

i think of you burning forests
in Kentucky, telling your baby
the names of all the songbirds,
pointing out the indigenous plants
(plucking the non-native species)

he doesn’t seem to fit in here,
pecking his way along with his
tall, built-for-fishing legs and the
beak made for water. i don’t
run him over, but i wonder

i wonder what you would
say of his presence in this arid
climate, at the same time priding
myself that i remember his species.
native? non-native? i couldn’t say.
but i think he will find his way.

Question

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unusually demure
her face reddens
tips down (shame?
fear? abandonment?)
avoids the question.

her eyes zip from
side to side quick
as a predatory cat
i can’t tell if she’s
nodded or shaken
the truth from her head.

i will know soon
but just as our own
questions burn between us
soon is not now
now is not tomorrow
and tomorrow (i) fear
is a little too late.

Encounter

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you sit like a tiny blue frog
hidden in the twilight on
a lily pad surrounded by black water

almost impossible to see
but i know you’re there
hiding out, zippy tongue ready

in a moment, you will snatch
away my summer, swallowing
my girls as if they were annoying flies.

i can’t disappear from this encounter,
but only work my way closer, ready
to pry you open, releasing them, in spring.

Ascend

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with wind i push it to the side
take the pedals, ride and ride
it may not wash away like beer
but brings on a healthier cheer.

wish i could erase the pain
of every misaligned refrain
but by midday my bike will be
put back together in harmony.

we’ll take their little hands in ours
forgetting yesterday’s sad showers
he and i will work the wind
till at our backs it will ascend.

Shiny New Conscience

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at his stall he holds
eggs picked from the coop this morning
(various sizes and colors)
piles of phallic squashes
in shades of yellow and green,
peppers as shiny as red wagons,
new potatoes ripe and ready,
green onions that might wilt
by midday (we’d better eat them),
tomatoes ready for today’s sauce,
tomatoes ready for next week’s canning,
glistening green chiles to spice up our quiche,
the makings of a meal
that will bring us all seven together
for $17, a downhill ride home,
and a shiny new conscience.

Forty-three Miles

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forty-three miles
and we have left behind the skyline
(cash register, stadium, buildings so new
i cannot recognize their sunken Saturday lights)
that i saw first at seven, then nine,
then permanently at eleven

we are surrounded by pines
and the famous aspens,
the cabin built from the ground up
with logs pasted together,
stone fireplace, wood stove,
eclectic collection of furniture
(home away from home)

we follow the girls along
the not-so-traveled path,
pine emanating its Rocky Mountain
odor into our altitude-chilled skin,
and I remember
(oh how I remember)
why Colorado is
home, home, home.

Signature and All

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five minutes coming in
(clouds as dark as Grim)
thirty-five going out
but i hold him on the cover
proud as a mother

“still have the ornament”
i tell her
“signature and all”
and it’s like it never rained

she puts my bike in her car
(it fits with drunken maneuvering)
i don’t want the night to be over
(been in a dry county for months)
but we head home

the blue sky beckons in the sunset
three girls as excited
as the inebriated reunion at the bar
yelling their no-rain song
to the unforgiving sky

i sit across from him
legs interlaced
(“they’re on a date”—four-year-old)
and display my magazine cover
my middle school crush
is now famous

he reads the article
interest piqued
and Mondo’s face grins up
just like in eighth grade
when he wouldn’t wear
the same outfit within a month
i think he’ll win
(he’s already won)

My Mountain

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For Olivia

walking together
hands apart
we could climb
slope after slope

it could be pretty
with shrubs
and wildflowers
and young scrub oaks

it might sprinkle,
sparkling your eyes
just a tad with
twisted rays of light

you could lead the way
and i could follow
(something new for me)
and give in to your desires.

but

it wouldn’t build
our hamstrings
with the ever-harder
mountain climbs

it wouldn’t bring
us (no matter how many slopes)
to the glorious
tops of fourteeners

it would never be the same
as tall pines giving way
to snow-covered peaks,
to insurmountable beauty

it would be you and i
new and rounded
(soft and wary)
not as hard-won as the years
(the poking-into-sky
sharp-at-our-cores
daring-to-be-ourselves
mountain peaks)
i have given to her,
my mountain,
my home,
my love.