Helmet

The thunderstorm rolls

its empty oil barrels

across the ceiling 

with black 
arms dropping 

to the prairie floor.

The insects 

are in a panic

without knowing why.

The moon arrives late

looking unwashed.

Blacking out 
and coming to

in the gaps.

In the morning

the squirrels 

are pissed 

and who can 

blame them

flinging black walnuts

from the heights

in back yard.

The baby 
must wear

a helmet 
out there.

The last deep heat 

of the summer

soaks me through

and through

and lays me out

by midday.

Such sensual

dis-ease.

The dead look on 

with longing.

Through the three 

small windows 

above the couch

the deep blue

calls and 
       calls and 
                 calls.

The summer 
is ending

before our eyes.

A second bat

is sent off 

to be tested

for rabies.

She came in

searching 

for her lover

who disappeared
inside the 
square cave 

three weeks ago.

All her nights 

of whirling trees 

and wild stars
are euthanized

then flash frozen 

and bisected.

The spiders 

work hard

to re-anchor 

the house

to the trees.

The snake writes

its dark green poem

in curves across

the porch floor.

The raccoons 

gather and stare 

in our second 

story window 
wondering how 
did those creatures

become trapped

inside that box?

And here we go

over the falls 

the golden river

of summer 
disappearing 

in an instant.

As if our lives 

are passing

in a day.

As if it’s all 
disappearing.

As if 

the disappearing

is becoming 

less invisible

as the red 

music

of the fall
begins.

.

Red

                        The Goddess of Whores by Jenny Heineman

There is 

a red ribbon

of liquid

flowing

so quickly

just behind 

your head.

Or is it 

a bolide

in the back 

of your head?

You can’t see it

but there it is.

Love now

as if it were 

the only food,

as if you 

are falling 

and love 

is a rope.

A tiny 

red river

of fire

going

going . . .

.

The Dishes

There is a window 

over the sink

that holds

a hundred years 

of nights.

In the winter I see

the neighbor’s windows 

glowing through 

black branches.

In the summer

there is a green cloud

of leaves cascading upward

with fireflies weaving 

their golden threads

in the leaves.

Thunderstorms 

and cicadas 
singing.

Laughter and 

hidden sadness 

in the unwashed
dishes.

I see myself 

from outside

in the dark.

There I am 

in the glowing

rectangle

head down

moving slowly.

I have been 

blessed with 

so many meals

from loving hands.

Now I send 

them back out

into the world

the way my grandmothers

and my mother did.

Each fork and glass.

One at a time.

Some nights 

impossible to lift.

The stars 
looking down

as they drift 

and burn.

Oh yes.

The burning.

Everything 
is changing.

How do I keep

forgetting that?

And the others

who stood 

in this place

and the ones

who will stand

here after.

I have not

been writing 
much because 
love has 
asked me 

for other things.

Still 
in the small 

hours when 

the day is done

or before 

it begins

my hands move 

as they have 

ever since 
I can remember.

.

Black sky

The storm 

passed over

and headed out 

across Iowa.

Since it is sunset

everything 

in the east

is illuminated 

against the black.

The glowing 

green tops 

of trees 

and white peaks

of roofs

illuminated.

It has been 

a year since 

my mother died.

I watch 

my daughter

and wonder 

if time

might move 

in circles

like everything else.

Vast arcs.

There are

old windows

on the prairie

that are filled 

only with stars 

and the unbounded sky.

.