Green Lake
My mind swims in my mother’s lake,
a green lake, a deep lake, softer than mud.
Before she taught me how to swim,
my feet sunk into tangled carpets of weeds.
With our hands, we dug and drizzled
soaked sand into salted kingdoms.
I lowered silver minnows into their moats.
Our bodies were the lake, washed in green.
I saw my grandmother and grandfather live
and float towards its center, a glowing sun.
Then I drove myself under lily pads,
remembering anything we gave to the weeds –
a bathing suit, a ring, all washed in green.
There is a sign in my grandfather’s house
that says “Love One Another.”
I could never leave without looking at the lake.
How could we forget its power? Its glistening,
green, waves return to us all that slips–
a minnow fin, a dream of floating and becoming
a lake where nothing bright is lost.
Yorkshire Tea
I made my tea like yours,
a full splash of milk so
it was lighter than I prefer
like a dried oak leaf.
And it was a little
by accident, that night
I spilled
boiling water down my leg.
My skin stung white.
I called you to hear you say that
all I needed was cold water.
Every kindness in the world
happened right there.
In the porcelain,
an amber sphere brightened
like a harvest moon
before the gathering light departed.
