lent— in extraordinary tide
I am not giving anything up
I am already a saint —
having given up
most of what one gives up
we have all the marks of winter
on our bodies — we become saints
when we are too old for what if —
we write the paragraph of our place
again & again — I am
a bird on the border of what
we become saints through
a total lack of privacy — we find
everything in need of a mend —
I watch my breath
drift to the street — our hands
scorched through holes in the potholders —
I am judgmental of drive-through ashes —
I earn my ashes
the old-fashioned way — with bad habits —
we can tell a raven from a crow
I am so pure I am a monster
I am 'finding the masterpiece mystery inspector
attractive' years old
I am 'complaining about the clocks' years old
I am 'buying high arch insoles for my doc martens'
years old
I am 'leave your socks on — it's cold' years old
I am 'watching masterpiece mystery online illegally'
years old
I am 'teaching students how to cite a tweet in MLA'
years old
I am 'enjoying a song by the cure in the grocery
store' years old
I am 'watching brexit in bed' years old
I am so pure I
am a bore
our children shout in suburban
late winter twilight — we cover
the maps with traffic
we put our feet through
our socks & our fingers through
our towels & we know that
saints do not require privacy—
our books — our eyes — need better light
it’s the end of the world but
which world
our flesh is tested in crabbed lent
we buy chincoteague salties for five dollars
a dozen on the roadside
we note the crocuses burst up
while we were at work
we can tell a swift from a swallow
we searched for hagstones & found
none in the wrackline of wicked march
we hold a useless language on our
tongues & it becomes useful
longer stretches of evening & stiff
contagious fiddlehead curl
our whole long-legged 1970s is in every
photo of you as a child— we know
there’s nothing
better to do
I
am the flutter that’s
left
in the nest
your
kitsch is on fire— the squirrels
rummage
at this time— our sundust
I
am so pure & so lonely — please come home
I went in a building only
to look at how the light entered it
I was taking all the people
out of my poems— I’ve let
them
back into the poems
I am in a starbucks — exhausted
I am going to let that text buzz again
we can tell a hawk from a heronshaw
we find it unsurprising that sainthood is boring—
winter misfit mother
we're in the yellow I've
dreamt about — shaped by tracery
a pinch & stitch
instead of a cervix — a bloodless
pinch— I do feel
the space of it filling in
rooting for the hawk as crows
drive her from the cemetery
across the street— rooting for
the hawk in hawk v pigeon
the lifelists of saints—
our hawks drag
the smoked sky behind them—
our heronshaws drag
the wading sky behind them—
our crows drag
the blossom sky behind them—
our grackles drag
the long-legged sky behind them—
our finches quietly
drag the oystershell sky behind them—
the lifelists of saints feature
mostly ordinary backyard birds
we indulge in cloud discourse
lententide as a sheltering-in
the hedge all flutter
I am a saint in your mouth
we are an uncountable noun
we
know the only
way
poets take revenge is to make
work
for themselves
—Lent 2019, Lent 2020
intertidal
archive— 1
with Asher Varrone
a buoy— two
feet long & mainly blue with yellow— an eighteen inch
rope
attached with a mussel attached to the rope
spriggy sea
heather
white rock
one-third of my thumb in length— with a hole in it
but not
through it—
mottled
potato rock with a shiny side
inside of a
conch— bleached & cracked
white &
coffee-stain two-tone rock— one-half thumb in length
small chalk
white oval rock— shorn smooth in half—
small
trapezoidal mostly two-toned rock— dark grey & white
rocks with
veins of mica
mica
roughly the shape of maine
collection —six
items— of small rocks mistaken in situ for seaglass
collection —eight
items— of seaglass— three amber four clear one creased & opaque
four grey
rocks— two palm-sized & two nickel-sized—
mistaken
for green when wet
golden-orange
flat shell with hole like a hagstone
possibly
limpet & smaller than a quarter
weapon-like
bottle mouth
collection —about
forty items— of glass that’s still trash & not yet seaglass
fire-coral
rock with sparkles & facets— as big as my palm
almost
square grey stone— also as big as my palm
white &
silver flat pebble— one-third thumb-sized
one very
smooth white potion pebble
another
very smooth white potion pebble
flat egg pebble
with white & black & silver speckles
half &
half rock— white & grey— sailboat shaped & maybe an inch at the base
bit of
quartz— is it really quartz— that looked like salmon when wet
orange
& white & brown small flashing rock
big potato
rock
barnacled
rock triangle
with seven
barnacles & one barnacle scar
collection
of three periwinkles— chosen for obscure reasons
pair of
broken spirals
collection
of three mottled rocks— silver & grey
two small
clear bits of seaglass
storm-broken
buoy with barnacles— neon pink
peachy
quarter-sized flat rock with speckle stripe
one
electric blue lobster band & one white lobster band
rectangle
of brick
concrete
fist in an iron cage
blue
peeling mussel shell
pair of
rusty bolts with washers— almost the child’s hand-length
jet feather—
probably crow— just the child’s hand-length
collection
of four soft-shell clam shells
collection
of three clear pieces of seaglass— one of which is square
trapezoid
of white tile— one-half inch thick
piece of
broken china with bumps of broken-off handle
pair of
littleneck-sized quahog shells— one with hinge & the other orange
two stones
we mistook for oysters
—August - November 2020
