Other Writings

During the summer of 2013, Suzanne blogged

her experience working as a dramaturg with

Mark Bly and the National New Play Network

at the John F. Kennedy Performing Arts Center

in Washington DC.

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Suzanne’s first book of poetry,

Passion Play, was published through

Mestiza Press of Los Angeles in 2007.

A Gracious Breath

A gracious breath away -

Your mouth was made

To fit with mine,

But this is the secret

That is mine alone.

The Keeper of Days is Suzanne's 2010

collection of poetry from Farolito Press

His blue eyes saw everything

before it was shaped.

Cupped the unsharpened stone,

held it to light

to find its grace.

For all its strength

he knows fragility,

the desire for perfection.

He will free the jewel,

bring out the facets, reflections

so that it can see itself.

Ten Thousand Sparrows

One   

We Do Not Tell, We Do Not Gather

you created and you will know mine

by a look,

by your listening

or lack of either –

because we do not stand and state

our names – real or imagined,

but we find each other.

but keep in a compact

in the small fastened compartment

of a make-up bag –

accepting its presence in

the thin silky material, the bulging outline

with zippered teeth

tightly closed.

Two

The last half of my teenage years.

I took a lovers every word like a sweet

seedcake from his mouth.

I took my parents every word like communion –

but it was really a quicksand

dragging me into its ragged hole.  

I didn’t know – and

I don’t know why.

In a room full of night

there was a stiff hospital bed and

a check from nurses every half hour.

I was asked to bear down and they would take

out these long, bloody jells.

On a half arm table

with powdery sterile gloves,

the nurses put the clots on plastic trays and

begin to tear apart something

that should have never seen light.

A procedure for them – a casual routine,

their motions meticulous, a silent movie. 

They said they had to check to be sure

that the fetus had not passed through.

These jell forms were not red,

they were beyond red somehow.

They were purple, a shade of purple –

thick as flesh and seemed to be the

color of all life itself.

I no longer fought the pain,

the more I struggled, the deeper I seemed to get. 

Relaxing, flowing with it

with the prompt nurses procedure –

each examination on little trays in front of me

with powder laden latex gloves.

My body seemed to be half

immersed after the operation.

I hardly slept that night.

Someone pale and granular

stared back at me

from the bathroom mirror.

It started to get light outside –

from black to gray and the birds came

with the morning.

Those little sparrows that seem to be

everywhere.  The common ones

that no one ever notices or holds dear.

There were four or five of them on the

window ledge.  Then eight, twenty, forty –

a kaleidoscope of light and their tiny sounds.

There were ten thousand sparrows on that ledge.

Each one tiny and precious like my baby

that lay dead inside.

But they were savage

taking everything into their mouths –

twisting the blood, the baby, every gritty delusion,

gathering up like seeds, rolling them in their beaks

and pointed, thin tongues.

They fought and jumped from one place to another

stealing everything that they could.

And then they flew away.