How to Select the Perfect Two-Step Partner

he will be tall in a white cowboy hat
backs up a horse trailer on the first try
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat

not just some dime a dozen Dallas brat
shoot for one six-two in boots, or just shy
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat

some strong, dark ranchhand with no trace of fat
a mischief-eyed wrangler telling a lie
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat

your man has the proper two-step down pat
a bright and floating denim butterfly
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat

he will be nothing more than a tomcat
whispering bull beneath the prairie sky
hog-ties a calf in a few seconds flat

he may ask you to dance, tobacco spat
a Shiner in hand and one on his eye
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat

Woodworker’s Blues

Uncle Carl passed away last year, before the holidays. He made wooden crafts of various animals, fishing lures, ornaments, trinkets. My dad inerhited his winter hat, cowboy movie collection, and six large wooden silhouttes of geese. Dad kept the movies and gave the rest to me, figuring I’d use them best. “My lover of weird fashion, my artist.”

I wore the ushanka a lot that winter. The geese were painted white, their peach beaks halved by a crooked black line into knowing smiles. Carl’s style was always very bold.

I was freshly divorced, and living alone in a three story WWII era rental. I kept the geese in the attic, stacked on top of a box Great Grandma Daniels’ china. My family’s mementos were adjacent to a box of my ex’s antique Christmas lights. He promised to pick these up “eventually”. It felt right to keep the heirlooms in their own corners, where I knew they were safe.

Where I was safe from confronting lost time and mortality.

A whole year has passed. I lug the box of my ex’s Christmas decorations down to the living room. “Eventually” has arrived, a final untangling of our wordly possessions. I upset the pile of geese in the process. They scatter, smiling up at me – and I realize something: They are just templates. Carl intended to do more, but couldn’t. He left behind a pattern and it’s my job to build something from it. I prop his plain, smug goose on my mantel and carry the rest of the gaggle down to my workspace.

What I make is not necessarily the point. I have learned in my own weird way: cherish what you have, leave what you can, and trust that others can build upon it.

Winter Solstice Blues

December is a hard month. Days short of light and patience.

It won’t snow. The cold rainy mist aches my bones.

Christmas feels tacky and cheerless.

The darkest night creeps by.

Mini strands of lights flash

on a crooked three foot

plastic tree. We’ve

got this, I say to

the dog. We

will make it

to spring,





I wear my husband’s denim work-shirt to pick through the blackberry thicket. Thin thorns carve hairline scratches into my forearms.  There are not enough ripe berries to make a pie, but I fill a small bowl.  A surprise for when he gets home later.  I pace the lawn and identify wildflowers: Sourgrass.  Moth mullein.  His car rolls up the driveway after sunset.  The dog and I run as fast as we can to greet him –  the ghost of him.

“You look like hell.”

The next day he tells me about a girl who looks at him like I used to- with adoration.

He’s often late that summer.  I wait up for him after a gig in Buffalo.  Dinner sits untasted in the kitchen.  I try to picture reasonable scenarios for the delay.  He eventually calls near midnight, stalled in his friend’s car, on 90 West, not too far away.  I leave the house fast – lights on, doors unlocked.  I load a fuel can from the garage into my hatchback.  I feel sick from the fumes, even with the windows rolled down.  I wonder if he told his friends about the girl.  If they condone it.

She pulls behind the stalled car and maintains a helpful, wifely veneer.  “Don’t get out.” Her husband says as he pops the hatch.  I peek my head into her passenger window to chat while he refuels.    “Hey, thank you so much!  We tried to fill up but the station was closed! ”  “You’re welcome.” She says “There’s a lot of food waiting at the house, if you’re hungry.”  He puts the gas-can back into her trunk with a firm “Let’s go!”

My husband schleps his music shit through the front door.  His friend follows me into the fluorescent blaze of the garage.  I set the empty fuel can on a shelf and try to read his eyes.   Dark, wide-set – kind as always.  No trace of my pain, no weight of witnessing a failed partnership.

“What’s happenin’?” he drawls, opening his arms wide.  “It’s so good to see you!”   I step across the garage and allow myself this comfort, resting my head against his neck. He smells sweet of sweat, cigarettes, ferns.  Blackberry leaves steeping in the hot decline of summer.  I hold him and try not to cry.

I follow her through the side door, where the dog loudly wags his tail against the washing machine.   “There’s lots of food in the kitchen!” She says, as we kick off our shoes.  The dog brings us gifts: old blankets, discarded paper towel rolls, cereal boxes.  We gather them graciously and make a fuss, laughing at his simple self-satisfaction.

I want to keep her laughing.  I want her to stop searching my face with pleading, fearful eyes.

My husband must’ve told him about the girl.  Our friend is too conversational, too animated.  Excited about the food, praising the blackberry crumble pie, describing people he met over the weekend.    The three of us stay up late at the kitchen table, talking.

“I realize now that I want this someday.  Marriage, a stable home.  I admire you both!”

Shit, he doesn’t know.  I get sick for a second, force a smile.  “Oh, honey, no.  This is so much work!”

I flash my eyes towards my husband.  “Did you have any epiphanies in Buffalo?”

“Not really.”

“I think, I finally got the hang of dancing this weekend.  Can you two-step?”  I gently lift her hands and lead her from the table. I patiently teach her, while the husband stares in disbelief. She’s clumsy at first, then delighted.

We skitter fast across the surface of her grief – an impossible, weightless freedom.  The dog paces back and forth with endless offerings, scattering cardboard tubes at our feet like roses.

For Karellen

static – hair
stands up on the back
of my neck

i am alone

can’t cut

sorta seems
no one else
can find
me here

am i alone

highway hums
in the absence of
song – static

For The Young Ones

ardor means
learning the story
of his scars

caress each in turn

practice until
the marks fuse, grafting
with your own

don’t ask if it hurts

to unlearn
the feeling of his
hand in mine

For Lev

Silent, slender, side-eying –
Eerily aware that something isn’t really
Right here. With him. With you.
Young but not unfeeling. No, just the opposite.
Oh, the whole town knows. Something zoetic
Zips from mouth to mouth about HER.
Have you heard? Mamma has been outed as an

Restless Ploughboy Blues

Author’s Note:  I have respawned and died a thousand lives since I wrote this song for my Dear Muse and Friend.  It is a wellspring of words, a touchstone to travel through time – always a place for editing, reframing, and sparking new stories.  I am grateful.

Much love to you, as always.


restless ploughboy blues

bright light,
i miss you so much
that i feel like dying

every time
i hear
your name

so i speak it often,
slap-happy noon high
or creaking in darkness.

one time,
the wonder of living
was lost

to me


you returned it
asking only for mad poems
to solve hedgehog dilemmas.

blue nights,
lost in nightmares.
fighting the urge to call


by the wish
to hear from your voice
that you remember

this path where
our lives once twined
and that we are real.

still life,
staring in mirrors
the safety we seek


in loving ourselves
and being too kind
do not to pry as to why

it is easier
with you near

what we are not
can never be