January Clementines

January clementines 

offer up

the illusion of newness 

in the dizzying spin of years 

offer up

sparks if squeezed

next to a match

there is hidden fire in skins

stripped in one long spiral

the fragrant reminder that

there is still joy here.  

DIVING IN

young beautiful couple

talking about diving, spear fishing, 

kelp forests, "a recreational dive."

she forgot a hair tie, he 

a towel, they share

a tall tumbler of champagne,

wonder when the ferry leaves. 

across the hot tub

keeping my eyes 

and the ferry schedule to myself.

my daughter watching then growling, 

back and forth between a

swimming tiger, then dead,

then a dog, then dead, then a tiger again,

then dead, then a dog,

back and forth, back and forth

across our side of the hot tub

until they leave.

in preparation for january 2

men in bloated tummies stagger round upstairs

blabber incoherently
a cloud of dope surrounds beach towels and swimmies,
my magnetic chess set, a birthday gift never used
stuffing suitcases like bellies
asking, "does my face look puffy?"
"it looks fine"
not sure if i'm lying

i don't know his face well enough for judgment 

satisfied he retreats to his luggage lair

i listen to the rain

a car passing

fire sputtering
dog softly snoring
near a half undressed christmas tree

not ready for the lights to join

childhood nostalgia, a mix that means nothing and everything

in its cardboard boxes 

one last night in the living room with my lights

hoping two swollen men might remove them before tossing dehydrated tree to the curb

a southern mother says this is the rule of january 1

Spot Check

In the Stalker world of customs, 
I've a mental note to watch 
the reference
because Ryan is summoned by 
the iconic image,
waves on the ground
perhaps stopped 
in parallax scroll,
maybe he matched it to 
the unfolding negative beyond us,
everything black trimmed in white,
goth Santa.
Fog, always languorous set against
the steaming puffs piped out of
drivers 
filing in and out
glum faced, 
unregistered,
bullet timed by the stalls, unzippered,
where the air is damp and heavy
where they haven't seen sun in years
nor the refectory,
where meat turns grey 
in dumpling skins, sweated,
what time is it,
we thought we were anointed,
the lorries we passed 
stretched further back
than weighing stations, 
strung as decorations
to their warehouses
what time was I up
did I pull gloves over my socks
today or yesterday,
who has our manifest
please, 
did the shift change again
what time is it
we are on the lip of something
almost tipped over 
into Poland, 
should border
bureaucracy hold,
should we and all
these sullen professionals
form the line of 
leaving Ukraine,
they ask, forever,
who loves the sun.