FOUR POEMS
Spirit Level When making an axe handlethe pattern is not far off. —Gary Snyder My mother was either horizontal on the couch,or vertical, a plumb line from her spineto the top of her head to the ceiling that spinswhen she drinks, alcohol and an air bubbletrapped, sealed and fixed inside her, her facecarved from wood, a tear gliding slowlydown the curve of her cheek. My motherwas once a spirit in this world. Onceshe breathed for me, above me, beside me,behind me. Now I feel her warm breathon my neck summer nights, peeringover my shoulder as I write every poem, whisperingLet me in. I let her in. I remember every timeshe picked me up or set me down, put meto bed or woke me from dreams, and nowI see how my whole life…