The Burial

One year after his death, palpably
and more quietly that when it first began
I continued to grieve in many ways.

One way: sharing a note I wrote for him.
Later, having lunch in a restaurant booth
a friend brought this up, and to my surprise

chose “emo” to describe what I’d put online,
and to tell me who I was. Who she was not.
She smiled. She almost laughed.

What do we do in the moments when
it does not seem possible to be less understood.
What do we say to mockery’s cruel face?

Ha, yeah.

Of all the conceivable responses: Ha, yeah.
He had died one year ago, but on that day
I buried him and somehow also buried myself.

(October 28, 2018)

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Girls in the Garden

Hands up with the moon
we weave between beds
flat foot to sodden ground
flowers in the dark, hiding
ourselves and the magic
–the witchcraft and illusion–
that encircles youth and
women who heal with
high mountain herbs.
Next door to normalcy but
never living in that house,
your home has long been
the alignment of the stars,
mathematics of dates and time,
the chant of spells, within
a coven that didn’t exist
there in the garden
some twenty years ago
when we raised our hands
as the midnight clock does,
all together, with the moon

(first written in 2012; revised for ColetteKay.com)

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Join Me in the Lake

Heat of summer, forever-long afternoons
of sun bearing down almost violently
have turned the lake into a warm bath.
Dark comes and this is the place to which we drive.

Four of us share this night, now a tepid oven.
Our group walks, laughing, along two edges:
where city park meets lapping water, and
where youth rushes too soon into adulthood.

The sky is black, the distant hills flicker
with neighbors’ white house lights, and
somewhere nearby is the whir of the freeway.
I do not think we can be seen

and so I remove my clothes
and wade in, up to my small naked belly
at which point I turn back to see you
still standing on the shore.

Someday when you are free enough to
revel in a night swim, then I will know,
though I will not at first say it aloud,
that I have seen myself in someone else.

(March 2, 2019)

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Regarding Music

I play music and it tells me many things:
if I am only skimming surfaces and
it is time to turn in for the night, and
if I’d like you to climb into the night with me

If you listen, it might say
let’s set fire to everything
and begin again on another coast.

Certainly you have thought this before.

At the piano I let my hands
do what they will; inevitably
the music scoops up who I am,
bares a soul that rarely breathes,
unearths what I did not know was inside.
At times I am not sure who is holding who.

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Seasons and Voices

What is winter?
Maybe like me
the unbloomed flowers
are unsure of what to say.
Do they sit within themselves
waiting to speak
holding their pollen tongues
wondering what might be best?

Is spring then a conversation?
It does sound that way when
we ramble through the canyon,
as if all the natural world
is chatting, unabashedly
dreaming ideas out loud
among friends
and to itself.

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Woman’s Intuition

They say rain will come tomorrow
but I sense it will arrive overnight,
and before the newly birthed day
looks up to find it has become morning
– during the intimate crevice between
ends and beginnings – I may wake
to the sound of the earth
washing itself in the dark.
This is what my bones say.
I am woman.
I feel what is to come.

And you: will you return?
The child thumping across my chest,
bending my ribs, a streak
of anxious wanting coursing in my arms
says this is not the time to plant,
when the soil still needs turning.
Again, I wake in the motionless hours
and consider the intimate spaces.
I long for them as ground for rain.
I must wash myself of this.
I am woman.
I feel what is to come.

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