Purgatory of sleep rushes in as 
Chamber doors burst open 
Snapping to attention 
Like a good little warrior to 
Ward off the hallelujahs 
Tickling the attention of consciousness

Like the stain that continues to emerge 
No matter how many times it’s scrub away 
The moment fleeting as outlines resurface 
Piling bodies upon the stage of redemption
Masks worn like oppressive armor

To rid oneself of holy haunts
First, one should dig up their bones 
Second, torch them
Third, walk away and don’t look back

Starting from the start, scrubbing, blotting, scrubbing the stain away.

  Day four on Poros  

I walk toward the sea,
early while the city sleeps.
My internal clock is a buzz saw
that awakes me at daybreak as it was set to do
in my youth. Every day of the week,
it would wake me, for I was the one
to bring the cows to the milk shed.
I was the one to milk the cows
before the school bus ran
in the morning, and after school,
for my father drove the bus.              

I never raised a fuss,            
not about milking or school,            
not about plowing the mule, Dan–            
not about being too bone weary to carouse,            
to be with girls except in my head,            
where my dreams would hit a homerun
every time. One day in Old Seventy Creek,
my sister’s friend lost her halter top,
two pink nipples dropped my jaw
& she did not deny my curious peeps
nor know that I memorized lines of poetry.  

From the wall I watch small fry dine
on sewage, piped straight from the hotel
into the Mediterranean Sea with no regard
by management for polluting water as vast
as that sea.  

A small sailboat docks near me.
A fisherman waves for me as fast
as he can, and points his scarred
hand into the boat. I get in. We sail.
He speaks no English; I no Greek. His wine  

is warn, sweet & white.
The sky is blue to its height.    

Day Five on Poros  

I walk down to the docks again
in the morning, hoping to go to sea
again with the old fisherman.  

It is not to be, for the fisherman
has a young man with him who approaches me,
“Thanks for helping him,” he says, his English plain  

& proper.  “You should return
to your home; sell everything you own,
& come back to Poros & our sea.  

Grandfather says you are surely
good luck. He always sails alone;
you gave his life a good turn.  

The squid will wait.
Grandfather will yearn
to have his good luck charm back.  

If you choose to come back
with the money you earn
from all your things, Fate  

will smile on you
like a woman in love.
Here, you can live like royalty.”  

On the hydrofoil in the afternoon, royalty,
Poros, the old man, blue sky above—
Athens ahead—reality breaks through:  

before another morning dawns on Poros,
I will be at my job in Kentucky
& the young lady who granted my wish  

& the old squid fisherman
will be separate,
but unequal memories.

Day four on Poros  

I walk toward the sea,
early while the city sleeps.
My internal clock would buzz saw
me awake at daybreak as it was set to do
in my youth. Every day of the week,
it would wake me, for I was the one
to bring the cows to the milk shed.
I was the one to milk the cows
before the school bus ran in the
morning, and after school,
for my father drove the bus.              

I never raised a fuss,            
not about milking or school,            
not about plowing the mule, Dan–            
not about being too bone tired to carouse,            
to be with girls except in my head,            
where my dreams would hit a homerun
every time. One day in Old Seventy Creek,
my sister’s friend lost her halter top, two
pink nipples dropped my jaw
& she did not deny my curious peeps
nor know that I memorized lines of poetry.  

From the wall I watch small fry dine
on sewage, piped straight from the hotel
into the Mediterranean Sea with no regard
by management for polluting water as vast
as that sea.  

A small sailboat docks near me.
A fisherman waves for me as fast
as he can, and points his scarred
hand into the boat. I get in. We sail.
He speaks no English; I no Greek. His wine  

is warn, sweet & white.
The sky is blue to its height.  
 

Day Five on Poros  

I walk down to the docks again
in the morning, hoping to go to sea
again with the old fisherman.  

It is not to be, for the fisherman
has a young man with him who approaches me,
“Thanks for helping him,” he says, his English plain  

& proper.  “You should return
to your home; sell everything you own,
& come back to Poros & our sea.  

Grandfather says you are surely
good luck. He always sails alone;
you gave his life a good turn.  

The squid will wait.
Grandfather will yearn
to have his good luck charm back.  

If you choose to come back
with the money you earn
from all your things, Fate  

will smile on you
like a woman in love.
Here, you can live like royalty.”  

On the hydrofoil in the afternoon, royalty,
Poros, the old man, blue sky above—
Athens ahead—reality breaks through:  

before another morning dawns on Poros,
I will be at my job in Kentucky
& the young lady who granted my wish  

& the old squid fisherman
will be separate,
but not unequal memories.

I try to stop myself from thinking about her vacant mouth.
Is it better than mine?
Do you hold her ribs from above,
is she skinny enough for love?
When its over do you think about How free you feel?
Are you keeping count like we used to?
Is she the wrestliing champion of the world?
Are you finally whole?

I hope to hell not.

A flash
suddenly
A flash
suddenly
A flash
suddenly
sat down in a nest of lightning bolts eagerly awaiting their turn

                           To be Zeus’ favorite
                           To be the catalyst of his masculinity
                           To be the one that cracks open the sky

mesmerizing her eyes 
                           just long enough to leave her sobbing                                     
                           and bleeding
from the hoof marks all over her back

The groaning window
porch fan, green wicker
whirring ice box
full of Orange Crush. 

In my weakness
redeeming parts 
severe as ever 
coffee in a thick white mug. 

The smokehouse grease
hot cistern, water pump, 
spirea and marigolds, dairy barn, 
cigarette in a pink dish. 

Right inside the kitchen
Help me. Help me right now
to sit at that table again 
one more time. 

Inside the person
lives a person who 
refuses to help the 
person whose source 
has been its pride. 

To skip, to lift
the flesh struggles
the nose whistles
the mind frets
the eternal scope

My plowed head
watches the captain 
on the bridge, 
standing still, 
coming for me. 

My little hands
under nail dirt
and skinned knuckles
hold the dry, warm
hand of my father. 
His fingers, 
the earnest ten percent
of a life loan, 
the fullness of grief
to gain in death. 
This grip again
we walk along 
a gravel road
and smell the 
rich dirt of wish. 

I miss the old days
when I didn’t know better 
when I didn’t need anybody
when Worldy Goods could be packed 
in a back seat in half an hour 
and only old people died
and then, at the end of their life. 

Freedom’s wage weighed 
on a food scale in ounces, 
and I water flowers like 
it means something. 

Go lightly, write, pray. 

We’re all Lula Mae Barnes
with four children from another woman
married at fourteen to a cracker jack
horse doctor whose heart we broke. 

We never had no cause to leave, 
but we did.  And we’d do it again.