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It begins with the lewd macarena each of us performs in the shower, then the modified twist we are hip to with that ever-absorbent partner, the towel, and on to the funky chicken of stepping into underwear, the shimmy of stretching into hose. There is no music, none that anyone can hear, yet no one can escape the boogie. Outside beneath the disco ball of the Sun no one is a wallflower, not even the two lugs in the crosswalk lugging a huge mirror, one at either end pressing his cheek into the cheek of his own reflection, arm extended, hand clasping his own hand in a tango more about control than passion, one couple leading himself forward, the other slide-stepping backwards across the intersection made double by the infinite burden they shoulder together. At the entrances of buildings even those afflicted with two left feet find grace with a stranger in a revolving door, where, regardless of gender, we share a pause and glance to communicate who will lead, who will follow, close to each other but never quite touching.

Slade was pulling minnows out of the dry river the day we met. Puddles, more or less, was what was left. But what could live wanted to and tried, treading narrow circles, a glide of brittle fins. He wore those rubber boots, though the sun was an anvil, and very little wet; he smiled, I remember that, his nickel smile right at me, his fingers letting fall the small fish muscles into a bag filled with yellow tap. I didn’t ask his name, or what it was he thought he was doing, but we talked, I listened as he taught me to relax the hand just enough. They can smell, he said, the oils our pores release when we tense to catch. You have to believe it, he said. You don’t mean any harm.

(After Raymond Carver’s Hummingbird ) Suppose I said the word “springtime” and I wrote the words “king salmon” on a piece of paper and mailed it to you. When you opened it would you remember that afternoon we spent together in the yellow boat when the early whales were feeding and we caught our first fish of the year? Or would you remember that time off Cape Flattery when you were a little girl: your father smoking, telling stories as he ran the boat, then the tug and zing of that very first fish spooling off into the gray-green world; you laughing and brushing back your hair before setting the hook? I know I am hard to understand sometimes particularly when you are standing at the post office with only a piece of paper saying “king salmon” on it but just think of it as a promissary note and that electric tug, that thrill pulling your mind into deep water is how I feel about you every, single day.

I was hanging with grandparents in a kindergarten and the teacher drew an accordion wall across to keep the children in antigravity class together the grandparents separately graded balloon worksheets sunlight floated in, the grandparents thoughtful about addition, mulling vacation Come here I said to the little one too little to be in class, soft as peaches I want to tell you something and you repeat it back to me next time She toddled over, put her arms up to hug me, we hugged She had stars inside her soul, was visibly celestial beneath her coat More human than human, got it? I cuddled her Okay, she said,I’m more human than a human

In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going And there’s no way back to where we’ve been. The sun and the moon have disappeared to an island far from 
anywhere. Everybody has a heartache — The immense gatekeeper of Gate Z–100 keeps his cool. This guardian of the sky teases me and makes me smile through the mess, Building up his airline by stacking it against the company I usually travel: Come on over to our side, we’ll treat you nice. I laugh as he hands me back my ticket, then he turns to charm The next customer, his feet tired in his minimum wage shoes. Everybody has a heartache — The man with his head bobbing to music no one else can hear has that satisfied Feel — a full belly of sweet and a wife who sings heartache to sleep. In his luggage (that will be lost and never found) is a musty dream of flying Solo to Africa, with a stop on the return to let go the stories too difficult to Carry home. He’ll take off his shoes to walk in a warm, tropical sea. He’ll sing to the ancestors: Take me home to mama. No one cooks like her. But all the mamas worked to the bone gone too young. Broken by The Man. Everybody has a heartache — Everyone’s mouthing fried, sweet, soft and fat, While we wait for word in the heart of the scrambled beast. The sparkle of soda wets the dream core. That woman over there the color of broth did what she was told. It’s worked out well as can be expected in a world Where she was no beauty queen and was never seen, Always in the back of someplace in the back — She holds the newest baby. He has croup. Shush, shush. Go to sleep, my little baby sheepie. He sits up front of her with his new crop of teeth. Everybody has a heartache — This man speaks to no one, but his body does. Half his liver is swollen with anger; the other half is trying To apologize — What a mess I’ve made of history, he thinks without thinking. Mother coming through the screen door, her clothes torn, Whimpering:It’s okay baby, please don’t cry. Don’t cry. Baby don’t cry.

When a man knows another man Is looking for him He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t wait To spend another night With his wife Or put his children to sleep. He puts on a clean shirt and a dark suit And goes to the barber shop To let another man shave him. He shuts his eyes Remembers himself as a boy Lying naked on a rock by the water. Then he asks for the special lotion. The old men line up by the chair And the barber pours a little In each of their hands.

My poor students, all I ask of them is to grow antennae, lie down with lava and rise with snow, grow tongues from their math assignments and no, Melissa, your mother won’t approve of the bioluminescent smear on your communion dress. The world fidgets in uneasy relationship to our statements about it nevertheless producing silver buds from ragged limbs like the luster in late Frank Sinatra songs. Finally, when I got off the sixth floor, I felt like I was walking out into the sky and aren’t we all pedestrians of air? Doesn’t it feel all wrong to turn our backs on the ocean? On an ant? On those Chagall windows you have to go through a gauntlet of ancient armor to get to? What was her name, that night nurse so deft her blood draws didn’t wake me up? Don’t get me wrong, I want to wake up. I want my old dog to show me all that wolf-light she hides inside even though she thinks I won’t understand, even though her vet and I conspire to keep her alive forever.

It can happen like that: meeting at the market, buying tires amid the smell of rubber, the grating sound of jack hammers and drills, anywhere we share stories, and grace flows between us. The tire center waiting room becomes a healing place as one speaks of her husband's heart valve replacement, bedsores from complications. A man speaks of multiple surgeries, notes his false appearance as strong and healthy. I share my sister's death from breast cancer, her youngest only seven. A woman rises, gives her name, Mrs. Henry, then takes my hand. Suddenly an ordinary day becomes holy ground.

everyone’s dying everyone’s dying to die everyone’s in my way on my way to die it’s too hot and dusty to die I am eating the ashes of the dead eating the exhaust of cars an image sacrifice looking for a boat to heaven namaste, your boat has bad karma out of the way I am burning inside of shame I am at the seat of ash on a boat to nowhere burning inside I am the end of time shiva orange rat queen goddess of money sleeping in time to die at the hands of doms sunrise to sunrise from the beiginning of time alone at the end of time rowing nowhere lost in serpentine alleys amongst the amputees and water buffalos amongst dust breathing souls looking into eyes looking back for anything not burning

Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on - on - and out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.