If you see an old woman
trudging alone
through the mall, don’t hide
in Dillards
behind the shelves of razors,
moccasins, aftershave.
She’s been searching for you
grave-filled days
ghosted with blue-jeans,
soft cotton sweats--faded
charcoal and blue hanging
on racks,
aroma of strong coffee like her
dead son loved
drifting
from the food court
through crowds of shoppers,
the coffee’s bitter taste,
her son’s eyes,
his smile in other faces.
Grief takes her home
where she pours liquid
Tide into the washing machine,
brews strong coffee,
waters her son’s philodendron,
and puts on her thermal nightgown
against the cold wind
knocking at the door.
It’s true, you are more
than a spectator.
Dark leafed sport
I feared I’d lose you
your deep glossy green
burnt by winter winds
growth turned inward.
Photinia up in years I
cannot save these old limbs
once sharp toothed blades
now brittle frozen.
Oh! But look!
Rising from the soil
deep inside new growth
shoots waving in the wind
leaflets opening to the sun.
She remembers their small apartment—
refuge in the heart of Hartford,
temporary,
like her flight from her husband’s
mean mouth and cruel hands.
Apartments huddled together
in dark pockets of the city—
asylums for the sick, eccentric,
insane—
mailboxes stuffed with government
checks and bills.
Her three jacket-dresses hung
in the closet next to her roommate’s
pullovers and jeans,
socks and underwear in boxes.
a Salvation Army mattress on the floor,
sheets kicked aside—
outside the open window--stifling air,
inside--skin and sweat.
Nights, they sat on a folded blanket.
She held and rocked him, tried to ease
his fears of dark-corner foes.
Their only light, a small aquarium—
two zebras and an angelfish.
No framed pastoral landscapes
or soft-toned portraits on the walls.
She missed the Tudor house
on Chelsea Lane, the spacious rooms,
cushioned floors, cherry furniture,
the American Indian oil
in warm russets and browns
she’d painted for her son,
her own twin bed across the hall
as she’d left it—made up without purpose,
her scent haunting the room.
Downstairs, her husband, asleep,
sprawled on a divan, a drained bottle
of Black Daniels in his outstretched hand.
Weekly, she met with her son
for a casual meal--
Edelweiss in West Hartford, El Charro in Avon.
He brought news of school, campouts, girls,
the fresh spring air--
his face handsome and lean, eyes confused,
his warm smile
forgiving,
Perhaps, at last, we celebrate life
by getting up in the morning,
watering the philodendron,
feeding the dogs.
We listen to “The Magic Flute,”
song sparrow in the juniper,
watch robins build nests
in the Cornelian cherry,
taste summer’s plums.
We thrive holding newborns up to the light,
laying brittle bones to rest,
like clematis climbing the honeylocust
after cold winters, burials.
Strong, stalwart stars--
lavender, wine, gold,
bursting through dark tombs
from which we rise
become song.
alone in
a field gather
wild impatiens-
a swish,
a rustle,
a sigh;
pint-thoughts
spin away;
spores volley
across the ether;
seedlings
full of themselves,
splashing
silence
Ghosting last night's dreams
with dust powdered feet,
skirts unravelling the wind,
we danced the country side--
wild flowers scattering green,
pebbles swaying the pond.
When your heart demanded rest
we found a poplar tree,
its leaves pale in the fading
of an old burial ground.
Sitting underneath shadows,
we leaned, each on the other,
and lifted clouds
as we listened to the music of the dead.
My girlhood friend, walking stones tonight,
I hold a vision of your burnt-orange hair,
your easy laugh,
the rapid rise and fall of your chest--
as if you were in a hurry.
in this twilight,
you are the leaves rustling,
the sea stirring,
your name a whisper
filling the universe.
Early morning whisper,
hospital days
filled with going home.
Hope fills every shelf.
Disinfectant and stale urine,
IV drip, staff's squeaky shoes.
I always believed
time would never end,
my space always
filled with living, but
in this final hour, I just want relief.
Rain on the rooftop.
Breaking light of day.
Winds of March bounce off
empty limbs.
A leaf from last year clings,
years of aches flowing through.
the agony of letting go,
In the stillness, death
points its red-hot poker, and
grabs the heart
like a robust janitor
bagging a coal.
Mother insists on cooking the traditional meal.
She stuffs the turkey and puts it in the oven,
peels potatoes at the kitchen sink.
A warm mist fills the room,
softens her stiff white apron
and freshens the blooms.
I help with the chopping and the paring,
notice there's something about her
hallowed eyes,
the quick shallow breathing,
squeaks and sighs when she speaks,
dry skin,
hair that's spreading thin.
When it's time to leave, I'm startled
to find in my easy embrace
an old used fragile doll
who could easily come apart. If I hug her too tight
I'm afraid she might fall, along with my heart
and we'd, neither, be able to rise.
But it's not about cooking or eating,
clearing the table or putting the kitchen to rest;
it's not talking about the weather
or following what's familiar.
Think about when you were
young and how
you dreamed of living, someday,
in a house filled with ruffles and lace
and story-book people, surrounded
by a garden radiant with blooms.
Or think about tomorrow
when you'll become wise,
lighting up the dark corners
or your time.
And you will know the world's name.
Some morning, when you wake
early, you'll sit on the porch
sipping coffee, letting the cup
warm your hands as you watch gray clouds
turn to pink.
You'll notice the sea-blue sky,
hear sun-up songs
of birds and smell the peonies.
And maybe you'll decide
that moment is all you need.
I have driven to Rhode Island
in my blue Century Buick
to hear the tide rush in
and watch the waves.
But I'm too late.
The tide's going out;
the beach is deserted.
I press my feet deep
into the ocean bed:
pebbles and sea-weed slap
my ankles while I look
at the foaming
and listen to seagulls screeching
for food.
I have nothing to give.
Stinging cold water draws marrow
from bones
in my feet and legs,
travelling up my spine.
The hurt goes deep.
I start for shore but stop
to feel the cold again.
I need to feel
even this ache
so I'll know I'm alive.
Those last weeks, when he was a diagram
of his former self--skin seizing the bone,
eyes sinking into their sockets,
cheeks making caves,
we knew we were lovers of a special kind.
He'd reach for my hand. It's so warm,
he'd say. Then He'd shake his head
and repeat my name
as if it was the only word he knew.
He'd cry.
I'd rub his fingers
and make a nest for them.
Now, I wait at my open window,
feeling the sting of the rain. Outside
an old man in a cast stumbles
to the entrance. A young man stands
under a black umbrella.
A strong wind strips a tree
of its last leaves.
One floats to my window and sticks,
then loosens its grip,
spins on the screen,
and is taken.
My brother's son
none of us speaks your name.
We don't claim to understand your struggles
or even the pain we feel
at your premature death.
We blame ourselves.
And we curse the gods
who won't bring you back
out of our black sorrow.
At the plastic-covered table, we eat
from our heaped plates
while we watch the steam rise
from our lifted cups
as if sorrow could escape
from the waters of life; as if we could drink
down our personal grief:
as if these cups held the blood of communion
and could pour back into us
what we have lost.
He tells me this is the end,
not to try and reach him,
then hangs up the receiver
before I’m ready
to say goodbye.
From the kitchen window
I see
a late autumn storm;
wind chokes the garden--
turns cone-flowers and
black-eyed susans
inside out,
whips the birch
to the ground.
Rolling clouds darken.
A wet-winged bird on a shaky wire
tries to hold on.
we climb the hill—
a Saturday walk
at Menninger’s Clinnic,
earth throbbing
beneath our feet.
We pass a broken robin
lying on the grass, but
we don’t stop
because we’re in a hurry
to reach the other side
where the air is gentle,
roses climb the fence
& ducks mark patterns on the pond.
But I can see
only the image of a dying
bird. I want
to go back,
lift it from the ground,
hold it,
smooth its startled feathers,
soothe its red-brick breast.
I want to hope
it will live.
If I could, I would
just let my fingers move
as though they were intelligent
and knew what to do,
as if they had a mind of their own,
could give absolution, &
force life into what has diminished.
Poetry Super Highway
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