He stands at the kitchen sink
jeans
no shirt
biceps flexing
above suds
intently
washing
my sinkful of dishes
the sponge moves methodically
clockwise
then counterclockwise
until the pots shine
is this a dream?
real
not real
maybe I’ll wake up
or not
for now
I’ll go along
with this gorgeous man at my stove top
making me lunch
clearing my dishes
then kneeling down
to wash my feet
I’ll say yes to the contents of all his bags
full of handy tools
homemade chocolate
fresh-picked fruit
let him trouble shoot
my outlet’s faulty wiring
and dance with me in the kitchen
all in the same afternoon
who’s authoring this story?
is it fact or fiction?
I did feel the warmth of those soap suds with my hands
heard his chuckle when my dance step squashed his toe
I saw the light go on when he ran that electrical test
maybe it doesn’t matter if my vision’s true or false
I’m smiling in this story
so absurdly beautiful
the awe
just keeps me laughing
last night’s dream seeps away
the moment my head shifts
and rolls from the pillow
there are only fragments
something about wings
we had them
not light and feathery
like storybook angels
but visceral and earthly
like a pterodactyl
these days
the golden door’s cracked open
and the light
leaks in and pervades
offering glints and flashes
that defy timelines
shift matter in space
now
I sense
a future
that I already knew
before
time’s triggered
in quick glimpses
in just the way his fingers curve, mid-air
suddenly
I remember what will be
some deep sensation
reverberates
disregarding time as line
past and future
collide within my cells
to all time
no time
every time
all things
there have been a few moments in this life
in my stint as human
in this century
when there has come a knowing
that mind can’t understand
I’m crazy here
trying to explain in words
an intelligence
I can only feel
perhaps what finds me here
is the same longing
that drives all the poets and seekers
we are drops of water
wanting nothing more than to meld back to the sea from which we came
somehow we know
and want to tell you
we were this source
we will be again
we are now
just forgetting
and remembering
all at once
in my world
it’s golden flickers
sparking
over second grade spelling words
through the laugh of the gecko on the wall
in a glance from the green eyes of my long-lost friend
to try to tell you
is like grasping at dust
illumined in sunlight
but if you’ve seen it too
maybe you’ll know
just what it is
that I cannot quite express
In this morning’s early light, I wake from a dream scattered with jewels. It melds with yesterday’s visit to Mary’s garden, where the chard grew four feet tall in emerald greens. The roselle buds shone, multi-faceted, in ruby reds.
There I saw farmers making trades. A glass jar of fresh cow’s milk (“if you look you’ll see the cream is golden”) in exchange for Roma tomato starts. It was there among the treasures of the earth where I caressed the surface of the cactus.
Mary gave a tour to the Bohemian and I, our hands spilling over with riches. Bouquets of arugulla, handfuls of tarragon and an armload of Tahitian limes. In the corner garden, where Mary grows her comfort foods of basil and eggplant, cacti guard the fence line, reaching heights double my size. We talk about their rapid rate of growth.
“Oh, come here. You guys will love this,” she says, as Mary walks to the end of the cacti row and bends down to sit with one of the pale green succulents.
She holds a rounded disk of cactus flesh between her hands, softly rubbing it with care.
“This is the Luther Burbank cactus, named after a man named from California. He wanted to grow a cactus that didn’t have any spines.”
True, the cactus before us shows the scattered marks from where typical needle spines would grow, but they are empty, the surface smooth.
“So the story goes that Luther would sit with the cactus as it was growing and talk to it and tell it, ‘You don’t need to grow any spines. You’re safe here. There’s nothing to guard against.'”
Mary’s fingers, graced with red dirt, trace the outline of the Luther Burbank, her voice repeating his mantra with sweetness.
“And you see, this cactus ended up growing without any spikes. It is the spineless cactus.”
courtesy of wikipedia
Six hands extend to cactus skin, our fingers freely scanning its soft surface. We each are smiling, enjoying the delight of being able to be this close. To cross the cacti line of defense, no danger of injury.
And so it is now, in this pre-dawn light, that I have rolled out of bed, away from the warm side of the Bohemian.
A naked cactus and the thesaurus are calling me.
With quiet footsteps I prepare my morning coffee. Light the sandalwood incense and come to my familiar writing chair.
I find the many adjectives that describe the state of being spineless: weak-kneed, faint-hearted, namby-pamby, lily-livered, chicken-hearted, yellow-bellied, wimpy, sissy, gutless.
Yes, I know them all and I’ve flared my spiny protection in response to all the fear.
So now, in the purple, grey light that comes through the windows, my computer screen illumines me in full exposure. For the first time in 300 some odd posts to the Archives, there is a man in my bed as I write.
This is private, but I’m telling you.
Telling you in praise of the spineless cactus. Luther Burbank speaks low with love.
There is beauty in vulnerability. Soft can be strong.
That maybe, really, truly, there is nothing to guard against.
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