In February 1987
before she passed, I asked her to narrate her recipes
and I would scribe.
To the day almost
these decades later, family is over and I cook her favorites
almost to a tee.
Our love
that winter dormant for so long returns
emerges as seedlings.
© Chagall 2014
pearled, blew on pink
lips drawn slowly
recede. Delicate press
cracks, the strung bow
perceived motion
stopping here
each lash unique
so clearly discerned
© Chagall 2014
appear like droplets of mercury
the you at the door
one stands out, lush and
the you now
appear to be smaller drops within
all is flux
begins a gradual
not the same final day
slide from the leaf
you know me then
simply changed place
there on the blades
of grass. Again, a single bead
where I’ve gone
but wonder
© Chagall 2014
Upside down, keep shaking the droplets
from the jar, let gravity get
all that it can, before you apply
the towel
© Chagall 2014
Old yellow wall phone in the kitchen
first time I smoked
a salt-water pool
she leans out the window
almost choked
smell of fries
rotary dial sound like roulette
her lashes caught fire
a dot on the water while we watched
hung clothes with it cradled at her neck
nothing like the first taste
salt and malt vinegar
assenting, rarely saying anything
Marlboro Reds
bus fumes at Port Authority
think it was Helen from next door
yellow stains
kissed her, the band shell
you too, love you
the next day I bummed another
dark ride, Palisades breezes
home
© Chagall 2014
From OCT 13, 2013. —Chagall
Happy Tuesday.
Today, this morning after
we left you alone
in your bronze home
aside the dirt-mound,
cordoned off
by rope and flowers,
I expected to wake
to the incredible weightlessness
of cold and sorrow,
but instead
I rise to nothing
but extreme desire
and eternal yearning
to perform spectacular acts
of radical kindness.
© Chagall, 2013
You’ve been sick before, I’m sure it’s
reverb at the altar dark and wet
seat-backs forward and trays
saved stubs of theater
blue Delphinium, perennial flowering
times to change the gauze
resonance, the sound decays at a rate
though the bag doesn’t inflate, oxygen is
especially for photos, certain
blues on the high mountains of tropical
catheters sometimes
choir voices especially altos
not even peanuts any more
mason jars of buttons
like blue dolphins, the leaves deeply lobed
they say you’ll be coming
the large cathedrals even more so
prepare for landing
butterflies pinned
hold nectar on the upper blue petals
anybody know what happened to the lady in room
sonorous, like yelling in a hallway
tipped wings, praying inside the mask
see, there she is behind your dad’s
blue flowers, late spring to summer
© Chagall 2014
They’re shaking the globe again –
hold on
© Chagall 2014
Nothing but blue
gorgeous body
the air is thin
I run my hands over
lined with trails
she resists for show
native poplars
the neck is what
eagles protect
the comforter down
look up
rhythmical
trails too narrow for two
I hold and then she
echoes
© Chagall 2014
From the fuzz of the brain
emerges clarity of thought
and from that most clear
mosaic comes divinity
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 