May 25, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

My last day at The Crossings was yesterday. Here are some ku written in the Sanctuary:

on my last day
a sudden shower–
I discover a leak

lined paper
soaks up the puddle–
I love the texture
of paper put
to a good purpose

a spider hides
under the altar–
eight gentle folds

every day that same
crazy bird bangs
into the windows–
once, I too was drawn
to an attractive challenge

spring downpour–
the boom box stays
turned off

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May 20, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

With no one watching,
he counts his steps
from the sofa to the spiral
stairway, as it swoops down
upon his memory,
talons outstretched,
grabbing a bit of childhood
like a trembling field mouse.
He counts each steep riser
as those talons lift
taking a tow headed
toddler up and up
to the landing, a nest
without feathers or bits
of hair to cushion his fall.
He flicks the light
off and on and off,
the same number of times
the giant bird blinked
its orange and empty eyes.
Peeling off his shirt and trousers
and folding them eleven
times, he steps into
the enveloping darkness.
Certain that the sky
could hold no more misery
he falls into bed
as if from the highest branch
as if losing consciousness
equals survival.

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May 13, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

her name is light
but mine means darkness—
when I gave birth
I discovered that paradox,
heaven is at your feet

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May 10, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

after the storm
the garden cultivates
compassion–
there is always space
for a new mushroom

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May 9, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

five o’clock shadow…
a grackle combs
the tall grass

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May 7, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

my mind follows
the water’s sound–
a cool pillow

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May 3, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

The night before
our anniversary

our son spells out
“affectionately”

five times, his print
slanting downwards.

Signs of our marriage
charm the room—

photos of us posing
in sun glasses,

the Little White Chapel
sign frames our heads.

But what in the world
was with my bouquet?

I remember objecting
slightly to the red ribbons

poking out the top
and streaming down.

But it was Vegas,
the bouquet standard

issue. I never
anguished for months

over roses or lilies
or the boutonnière

worn by the cute kid
bearing the rings.

We had only ourselves
and the words

of our celebrant
pouring affectionately

over us. Eleven years
later we’re closer still

than any blooms bound
together and forgotten

in a box, the petals pulling
away from the stems.

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May 2, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

stuck in our ways
I greet the moon
upon rising–
hazy and full, she
sets the day I begin

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May 1, 2007 by Melanie Alberts.

We have people in Ware and Reading,
Distant relations, collections of bones

One a mill town, dirty with hard work,
Constant coughs, one near the stripped

Down coal mine my grandmother’s
Grandfather died in at ninety-five

In a mining accident, crushed by darkness.
I have felt the crushing twice, on my chest,

In a town known for the cold corners
Of a Puritan’s heart, fighting infection

With a little pill, I was dating a bassist
Who stood five foot seventeen, taller

Than any of our people so it never should
Have lasted. It happened one night as I

Was sitting there, breathing, then not
Breathing, an invisible weight pushing

In my lungs, feeling again like my friend in
Seventh grade, who was sitting on my chest

Pushing in on my nipples with both hands,
An empty look in her eyes that said “Forget

Who you are, where you are, just survive.”

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