The literal territory of these poignant, sensually grounded poems ranges from the poet's home in New Mexico to as far away as a Jewish cemetery in Malaysia. Rigorously composed, these are poems that distill the wide world--and the way we scout to see what we're missing/and end by missing what we're seeing.Like the matryoshka doll of one poem, or, in another, the secret names of God felt in a butterfly's tap, Chalkmarks on Stone reveals selves within selves as it explores new love, estrangement and the overlap of generations and cultures. The last section of the book, Another Part of the Field, a long meditative fugue of 6-line poems, is inspired by the I Ching.


The Peony

A man cups his fingers as if to bring them
to his lips to blow me a goodbye kiss,
or, as if he were Italian, to underscore
his words. He is not Italian; he is not
speaking; and he does not bring his fingers
to his lips. Gravely, they descend upon a peony
held up by the rim of its fishbowl vase.
Because I would be his, he tells me a secret
it is mine to know, all the while spreading
the silky petals with his slowly opening hand
so that the peony is made to bloom to its fullest,
until it is an open globe, overbrimming the vase.
Only now do I think of those paper flowers
that blossomed when we floated them in water,
as girls. The words of the secret blurred
as soon as I woke, but his light hand
gravely forcing the peony, that remains.

fromChalkmarks on Stone

3.
Not for all the jewels in her tears,
the sapphires, flawless diamonds, pearls
she so unstintingly pours forth,
would he, by any sign, imperil
his standing as a god, his self-worth,
and let her know how these last years
unmanned him, made him greedy as a child
who's fed, but grabs at any teat,
wailing for his mother's milk.
He keeps Hades' coffers stockpiled,

but it's not for Dis to count his gold.
Her long hair's gold, soft as corn silk.
She sleeps while he untangles it.
Such things can't be bought or sold.
Such things are easily defiled.
He chokes, fighting down self-wrath.
She wakes to an avalanche of tears,
his tears, the minerals for their bath.

from Bosque del Apache

Winter. Scratchy branches flame
upward, stiff as ratted hair.
Crows crown the leafless trees--
black buds that bloom in unison
only to fly. At dawn, the marsh
is crowded as a skating rink;
ducks land in squadrons, swim
in pairs. Geese honk to be let by.
Like them, we're stalled in traffic,
caught in a cavalcade circling
the one-way fifteen mile tour loop,
binoculars in every lap. . . .