Old Dyke's Tale

I’m sitting with a pad and pen in Starbucks,
Staring into space from where poetic inspiration
Often comes as if by magic, when a gorgeous
Butch Latina dyke strolls in to get a latte. In my
Dreams our eyes meet and we smile in recognition,
Nothing more, not cruising, just appreciation
Of the others woman-loving vibrancy.
Though at the center of my being I am 35,
My curly hair still thick and reddish-black,
In truth, I'm more abuela than inamorata
Much more salt than pepper and more chins than
In my prime. I see to my surprise and consternation,
I am invisible to the luscious 40-something woman
As her glance takes in the room. Suddenly her elder, 

I send her silent blessings and a thank you for this poem.

Weekend Plans

Your mother’s body, still robust from

Many years of treadmill walking,

Careful eating and tai chi,

Is forgetting how to hold a fork and

Make her favorite chair recline.

You’ve mostly gotten used to her

Not knowing who you are and how

She asks you every 30 minutes

Where her parents live. She’s 94

And though she hoped to beat it,

She is dying. Tomorrow you will

Buy her funeral because, in truth,

Your mother’s dead already and this

Ancient woman at her kitchen table,

Cursing at the aides and treating you

Much better than when she knew you

As her daughter, is just a shadow of

The one you wished would love you.

Tonight, you pray that you yourself escape

Dementia. You’re expecting that tomorrow
You can choose you mother’s casket and

The room the service will be held in,

Then go about your weekend business

As if it’s just an ordinary day.   

Culture Wars

You try to shoulder your way in,
The grown-ups’ conversation, how
They’re saying things that seem to matter,
No one looking down to where you’re standing,
With your hands on hips and hoping that
Your furrowed brow will let you get a word in edgewise.
All you want to say is “Hey! I’m here.” You know
They’ll only notice if you say, “Oh yes, his
Hamlet: dark and rich with madness,” or
“That pas de deux just took my breath away.” But
you are ten and you will never be a culture hound—
a poet maybe, but you’ll never take much pleasure
dressing up and sitting primly in dark theaters,
knowingly conducting with your finger.
You sneak outside and ride your bike into the sunset.

Urban Adventuring, 1958

I used to scamper up the rocks

as though my feet had eyes,

The New York City outcrops in the parks providing

Moonscapes, alpine ridges, pyramids, and pueblos.

No classrooms, homework, 

Angry parents, bossy older brothers —

Only me, a chubby tomboy, doing somersaults—

On moss and leaf mulch at the foothills

Of my pristine mountains.

The Myth of Separation

In elevators, supermarkets, & restaurants
across the nation, total strangers
feel compelled to talk about the weather.
Sometimes frightened from the facts of it:
how tornados now touch down in Scarsdale
and New Hampshire, how the winter’s
warmth supports the spread of Lyme’s.
Or argumentative: it’s not because of
Human greed these things are happening, or
It is. These conversations: are they
the secondary gains of climate change,
a resurrection of the dying human instinct
to survive by holding hands while crossing streets,
or huddling together through the chill of night, or
eating potluck-style to maximize slim rations?