–
I heard a drop of rain
On that rhododendron call to me:
You are alive.
This minute, and only this one.
You may grouse at yesterday or
Pine for tomorrow but only the
Perfume of now exists. You are
Alive in this one breath,
In the bend of light which
Turns this petal pink, alive
In the exact desperate push-pull
Which holds me onto this
Silken flesh, you are alive, the
Drop of rain on the
Rhododendron called out
To me.
–
–
I’m not at supper tonight and
I hide from it often, maybe because
You said we must gather together
At the end of the day, but by then,
I’m done with togethering. I wished I’d stayed at
Target (the kids and I were happy there,
Sort of) playing house in Seasonal,
Opening and testing folding chairs.
I’m not at supper tonight but I
Hear it still, the flatware
Striking the porcelain, and in between your
Even-keeled voice, which is just a mush
Of instructions– like all our life now: one
Duty repeated after another, from
Alarm till bathtime, with a toe of
Laughter, and a few bars of “How do you
Solve a Problem like Maria?” elbowed
In between.
–
Girl, this is the way I like you.
I like you all busted down and half apart.
This is unguarded you, leaning at the bus stop
At 4:45, stealing out of work
Cuz something– you are not sure
What– is hurting, and in your far off stare
Is the memory of those last half
Dozen chocolate chip cookies zipped into
A bag on the counter, and the
Horizon of the sofa; and that’s
Where you are right now, though
All these taxis scream by and echo off
The city canyon wall.
–
We are always eavesdropping.
The boy in the next yard admits
He forgot to do his work, and the ladies who
Race by walking exchange their bodily failures
Like measurements of sifted flour.
I hear you, little bird hiding in the Yew.
You’ve complained about the
Weather before, damn day chilled
Too quickly after a tease of hot sun.
Sounds hang damp with the long rain.
A song lifts off the bubbles and the
Grease, across my hidden neighbor’s
Drive. I hear her, simultaneously
Washing time away, and clinging on.
We are always eavesdropping.
–
After handing me a cup of
Cinammon tea, Colin gently repeats
How he ordered the nematodes for
The garden. And I “oh-yeah” him
And say: hey, yeah, I think I did
Hear you say that once before heh-heh and
This tea I am drinking is from
The second of two identical tins
He gave me at Christmas because
Last year, he said, I moaned
A little bit when the last bag
Was tossed away. And I smell
Chicken noodle soup huffing out from
Under its lid. He made that
Too. And it is a blue Sunday, and the
Cookies wait under lids for the Bake
Sale and the kids putter, and the
Lawn is mowed and I have
Pink eye and something viral and
I have never
Felt this loved before.
–
We are all on the verge
Of something. Like the serene
Beagle standing so still at the
End of his leash, yet shivering
For the ripe time to snatch
That little boy’s dangling sandwich.
We are on the verge of
Swatting the unexpected
Gnat, smashing quick out the
Light of some soul ambling
By just to enjoy our hyacinth
Perfume.
We are all on the verge of tossing
Up our hands and saying
What is the use of these
Shackles I’m dragging, except to
Warn you all I am coming?
We are all on the verge of
Goodbye. We are all on the
Verge of falling
Into the next quicksand. We are
All. All. On the
Edge, the verge, the
Precipice looking down and
Not seeing anything at all,
Not even noticing each other’s
Warm life hanging in the icy air.
We are all on the verge
Together and
Together we are
Ready to jump.
–
I drive along Whippoorwill
With humming girl strapped down
In the grey Honda hulk
Of metal and plastic and
We pass the 14th fairway of
A country club to which no one
I know belongs, and it’s so early
That the only player is
An arc of pressurized water
Iodized by the sun and
Falling on bluegrass.
And it isn’t
Water I see, but
Myself I feel,
Washing down,
Transforming for one
Time-shifted second
Into that loose girl
Who did
Once
Carry nothing but
One bag of wood and metal
On her back and felt
The expanse of
Spring like a
Long walk on
Ignorant grass.
–
I have a mother. She’s over there
In Iowa, playing Tetris.
I have three sisters, they are
Always available to me, on the phone
To laugh and retell stories. One of them
Did enough work, herself, to
Find her way all the way back from
“Who are you?” via “Who am I?”
To “Who cares? I love you anyway!” and
Because of that, we are sister-friends.
I have good girl friends, all over
The world.
Finally.
Some I found in
Grad school, some on the floor of
A restaurant, on a porch swing,
In a pub.
There are those I am still
Excavating from the wreckage of
My college cyclone. Three
Revisit me all the way from the
Faraway land of Catholic school,
And seem to love me best.
One friend is Karen. She came with the
Wedding, free of charge. Insisted my hips
Will shimmy that way,
Come the day I let it all go.
She doesn’t ask me to change myself, or
Order me around; just to say,
hello,
Come in. Here’s the love. Here’s my arms–
I’ll hold you and you may lean in here,
No judgment. You are doing
Fine. Rest. Put your head down,
Sister, daughter, mother, friend.
I have got you. We are the
Same, no less, no better
And when you want to take up
The mantle again, you will be able to
Do it because all of us are here to hold you up
Say yes, you can. Know it because
You are me.
You are us.
–
Two men say: I love you
With turkey. They do it at
At least twice a year,
Once at my husband’s
Table, with me at the store
Choosing all the groceries, the
Parsnips off season,
The magical ginger root
To dress an everyday carrot. Pushing
The cart through the refrigerated aisles
I catch myself cruising a thought:
Someday wouldn’t it be nice to
Make my mom’s mom’s mother’s
Dressing recipe — which has more
Sausage less bread than Henry’s — but then I
Don’t, I wouldn’t because
This daylong ritual of trussing and
Chopping and ram jetting
And then, just so, while whisking,
Timing out the sides, is
Colin’s way of telling
His Dad: I watch. I learn.
I notice. I love.
It’s just coffee.
Dr. Joe’s coffee and the
Market Battery and the
Princess of Wales namesake on
Stone edifice around the corner from
Tattoo parlor and Gentlemen’s
Clubs. It’s just an
Old downtown trying to
Bring on the latest
Food Fad — bubble tea and
Burger Bars. It’s just
A room for people to
Congregate, with their
Bowls of fair trade coffee
And their laptops. But
It is not native to
These uncomfortable countrified
Children, waiting for
Dad to pay and for
Some kind of green
Space to open up and for
“Time to go!” and its particular suburban
Inflection to mean “Hop in
The Van” and not this strange
Unfamiliarly natural flow out
The door, on foot,
Which requires the journey to
Be more than
The destination.
