the doubts which whisper in my ear

Fleeting doubts are formless and hushed. They crackle like kindling but not like a fire; just a weak undercurrent of sound in my mind. Regret rings faint like the weezing whistle of my nose as I breathe heavy into the pillow just hoping to suffocate. Murmurs, unintelligible and breathless, like when you tried to talk through your neck.  Oh yes, I do have my momentary doubts. Swift as currents they pass. Cars sound like waves as they pass by on the highway. Fast. My doubts pass the same way too. Too quick to read the license plate. Was that a vanity plate or what? I would dive in the street if it would fix everything but sometimes it's just a total wreck, a salvage yard reject. We were happy once. Right? But even my doubt I doubt. Like, really Caroline....can you name a date? a time? a place? Blank. Silent. It had to have happened-why else would I stay? But it's just like the thousands of sentences I think I said aloud to you but instead doubt crept in slinky as a cat, because you didn't respond. Did you ignore me? Did you not hear me? Or was it that I only imagined speaking? The doubt overshadows it. Then I doubt again. He will be rebuilt. As machine on bone; as metal on flesh; as I breathe and die; science will defy God and make that man live again. Live in limbo, purgatory, live to find me out; holding his ventilated breath till the next foot drop... Till the mortar erodes, and if I had stayed, I'd be the one pouring the water. I'd be the creek that made the Grand Canyon. I'd feed him his poison because my voice wavers to say no. I'd empty out my bank account drop by drop to form the creek and drown him in my own tears when I saw the ripe fruits of my labor. But that's not what happened. Elusive. I'm hallucinating. Was it dreaming then or now? Was I dreaming when I said I love him or when I said I still love him? Was I lying or dreaming? Because I left him before that. And now he is getting better. The fire that fueled his recovery-his anger- will be the fire that burns me at the stake. I'm a witch. Haunted by ghosts that live. Can a man in a wheelchair chase you in your dreams? No. I know the answer is no....and my voice wavers even at that no. Doubt. Whose love child is this divorce, bastardized and waiting to breech and wail and be split in two by the judge, the Biblical and Holy and Wise King David on St. Patrick's Day? This is my undoing. The doubts which caged my no. The fears which locked me in patterns, wefts. Teeter Totter; pull and push; apprehension and hesitation. Just barely a second. A tick of the big hand from six to seven. Ringing in my ears but muted. Like a cough from the balcony in a live recording. Like my wedding ring when I opened the box which I forgot it was in. It's not even loud here like I thought it would be because I even doubt my doubts the rare moment I even can hear one.

make peace

A question I can't answer

or maybe I just don't want to-

it's like the waking up too early,

car-shaking, howling winds,

sugar and cream in black coffee,

and the pleasure of eating till sick.

When asked, the answer unfolded

as naturally, as soft, as intimate 

as flower petals, labias caressed,

blossoming, water color sunrises,
the coil and curl of flaring skirts,

and a farmer wiping his brow.

So ask again, only you can ask:

Why am I here? Why am I with you?

It's just like how Haiti nuzzles into

the Dominican Republic, and it rains

in the rain forest, and my heart 

and my body needed your heart and

your body, so I'll rest and not ask more.

vacation style

weave my body into the bed
it's patchwork quilt time
when two scraps make whole.
stipple in and out the sheets,
housekeeping crisp and ignored,
as sandbag legs get thrown
over working shoulders,
broad and bare,
to the grind, grind, grind of
Chicago's street lights,seeping
through the drapes,
through the flesh, peeled back
and shedding snake's skin old.

you can do a whole lot of nothing in a whole lot of years

I slipped past slimey green rocks
to wash my toes in the river flowing
dried off with towels of willow leaves.
Settled, clean, inhaling puffs of clouds
which coughed back into the sky,
I wrapped my hair in plaits of wildflowers.
Hungry, I chewed on earthen acorns,
till my teeth splintered and popped

Laid back on lazy lawn, contrite life,
from day to night to day again.
This atonement, these fears,
the humbling, rolling years
drifting down the bank, yet I am still
just the tiny pebble me:
rough not smooth,
cold not warm,
and terrifyingly at home
not moving at all.