Internal Wind

When you died, our son
became my son I watch
through your eyes
and mine how he lifts
his whole body into
a long accent à droite,
arms taut, wrists impossibly
rotated back, fingers and toes
also pointed back
to all the hours, years
of practice in turning
everything around.


Over the hollow
you left, our son stretches
his fingers across
frets and strings
in C minor,
Bach’s Etudes
the way you taught,
the way you closed
your eyes, nodded, satisfied—
our son will remember.


Remember how
he watched you deep-
breathe into yoga postures?
Now his own focused flow
heals what Western doctors call
tics, quiets what Eastern doctors call

internal wind. Listen
how our son calls
to his yoga students
what he learned
at your knee: Effort
brings the rain—

of grace.


When our son and I argue,
I feel homeless, divided,
until I remember how you
and I took turns massaging
his neck that ached from its day’s
staccato singing—


Sometimes I can see his tics
as flawless, meticulous,
a body expressing itself
with perfect diction.

Driving Down Old Eros Highway

Me, in my Q50 with its hot flashes and warning beeps,
heading toward Sweet Desire, New Jersey, where my love,

soon 70, will woo me with mango, melt the mushy pulp
in my mouth—or perhaps he naps.

You, CeeCee, painting the walls pink in the tiny house in Putney,
recently moved in with your old college flame, coming so easily

against his new ceramic hip, just the friction of it. You say
your pelvis never quite fit with anyone else, including your soon-to-be-

ex-husband of 20 years. Me, with a G-spot suddenly. A rainbow
of chaos tunneling through me when his fingers find it and flutter.

And long live the reckless tongue. The old-fashioned clit-kind
of climax. Like a young planet rising. Oh, how old and greedy I am

for that whole-body wave and chill and quiver and release.
You, purposely avoiding that whole-body wave of shiver,

as it reminds you of your ex’s dogged insistences.
For your 65th, your daughter gifted you with a mini vibrator

on a rubber ring for your index finger. A sex-thimble, you joke.
Sex over 60 seems unseemly to talk about, CeeCee,

but it seems more ungrateful to say nothing at all.
You and I speak of what our mothers couldn’t give us.

Daily I pray at the temple of Venus.