Lisa Shields

You never expect or plan for resonance.
It is never a gradual, logical linear progression,
rather it is rare and random,
like finding a perfect diamond where lightning fell,
burning everything around the strike
leaving a bit of wonderment in carnage.

I could not, never did count on you,
did not believe in such wild magicks
after life bled me white or romantic notions,
but there you stood, and I felt
insane connection, owing nothing to “compatible”.

Not suitable. Not Appropriate,
tell that to the force elemental
who seized us both after each hello.
She doesn’t give a damn for decorum,
leaving us stone and tinder
to strike flames without intention.

Love is the human construct offered
to those who will never touch as we do,
unplanned and unasked.
I can’t hate you for wanting calm,
for needing an even keel,
but I can’t deny
that we will never NOT touch each other
in this mad, feckless, breath stealing fashion
so long as we draw breath.

And you are not allowed to hate me
for the pounding in my chest,
because we have been too long away
from the force of life we became
too close to not ignite.

Resonance is not the individual pulse,
the thud of blood, heart, or bone.
Resonance is the matched beat
that quiets the ravening parts,
we never found another way to feed
save in each others arms.

Born to a harsh place,
Concrete lots that tore my knees
when I tripped skipping rope,
but from the cliffs of Jersey City,
you could see a finger width of the Hudson,
the dividing line between NY chic,
and something else back then.

My sister told people
we lived in Parsippany
because that didn’t bear the JC taint.
And I fiercely protected my home town,
though it never felt like home to me.

Home didn’t happen till 52 years passed,
and I found myself in Harwich Port,
one of too many residents in a big house
crafted by an ocean going man
they say may have been a slaver.

It stands well,
weathered by so many years,
and filled with too many lives,
my tiny bit of heaven
where the raised voices
are never raised at me.
Where I sleep each night
in nun’s bed simplicity,
but still soundly, at peace.

The ocean a mere mile away,
Red River beach at dusk or dawn,
the distant cliffs a bit of Chatham,
facing Nantucket Sound to the South.

I can’t write there,
the words dance away,
still it is my home,
my modest garret all mine
for a hundred a week,
this worn and wondered house.

I never dreamed of Cape Cod nights,
never wished to this sort of life.
But here I am, and here I stay,
a washashore with a heart full of dreams
Jersey City never knew.

“Maximum Potential Realized”
Such cold clinical jargon
To signal that it’s all over
But the packing of clothes
Making neat piles of chaos,
Closing the doors you never thought
You could budge.

Will they know that three taps means
“I like you”?
Will they understand that sausage
Is what she will eat for breakfast,
Never eggs, or cereal?
Will they see the anger
In cornflower blue eyes
And simply up the meds
Til she is complacent?

A year I spent
The first face she saw each morning,
Drawing her from sleep
Two year old dreams
In a thirteen year old body,
No words—
Just angry honking
When her pride was offended,

She bruised me,
Flung her breakfast at no one in particular,
And I can forgive every scratch, or kick,
While I count up the things
They will never know in her,
Because she has maxed out,
Little girl lost for all time.

You call me witch in a delicious sort of way,
That doesn’t hint at piled wood,
Nooses, or water boarding of any kind.
Rather you rasp the word,
As if it slid slowly down your tongue
Lightly skipping each taste bud,
Committing to memory the savor of my skin,
And your eyes never leave my lips
As if you might miss one smile,
Or something more precious to you.

Good witch, or bad, I tease.
And you rumble “mine”
In a way that makes me shiver warm.
I would ask you what sorcery I do,
But you would list the things
I am without thinking,
The glow of my skin
Barely an inch from your fingers,
The tiny moan you catch in a kiss,
The arch of hip to hip,
These things you call magicks.

You call me witch,
Your hand in my hair
Holding me steady
So my eyes will not close
When you kiss me again,
Whispering my name
As if the spirits would carry it
To Hecate’s throne
Leaving me your witch,
Forever and a day
My oh so sweet Familiar.

I was prepared for “different”,
packed blankets, sweaters
and clothing meant for “warm”.
I was ready for cooler climes,
snow, frost, even the chill of alone.

I fled on a rain washed day,
some would have said
did not bode well for fresh beginnings,
but I put a past in my rear view mirror,
drove through places I had known,
to points due North.

Now nights carry wood smoke,
the scent of cedar, the breath of pine,
the sky is brilliant clear
and the night stars do jazz hands
across my dazzled eyes.

They say I may be lonely,
having left so much behind me,
they warn that true winter
may ache me to the bone,
but three months of no battles,
90 days without harsh,
12 weeks of “deeply calm”
and I am ready for any damned thing
the Snow Queen can throw my way.

Bring it on,
you never knew the cold
I knew before I flew.

Not tepid,
Not cold,
More like that first breath
Of April air,
After a shut in Winter
That rattled the panes
And brought aches
With every scratch.

This is cool comfort,
You to me
No brain frozen delight,
No fetch the sweaters moment,
Just thee and me
Wrapped in a minute
No one else could deliver.

The young will fuss
Over marks and lines,
Bemoaning their lost perfections,
But I will be sassy nude with you,
Boldly sagging and bagging,
Knowing you love the imperfections
As much as I love
Your silvered treasures,
And the deep lines that show
When I give you forbidden delight
As only we know how.