Posts for June 2, 2020 (page 2)

for good measue
this thing goes back, and forth
pendulum around novelty
brace for the loosening of expectations
brace for the posssibility of growth
brace for the possibility of change

I remember people’s hands the most,
maybe from a lifetime of averting my eyes.

I can see the smart girl’s curved pinkies,
or the fan-shaped nails of his artistic fingers.

When I meet my father in my dreams,
Even there I am looking at his tidy hands,

mixing the dough, a ring long since pawned-
Never looking into his face to say goodbye.

The answer ain’t in your phone,
Though you search and you scroll
And you lurk and you happy face.
The answer ain’t in your car,
Though you turn the damn thing
Upside down, kneeling, shoving
Your grubby paws under the seats,
Rifling through the glove compartment
Twice, sitting back finally on your tired
Haunches with the most thoughtful look.
The answer ain’t in the sky, especially now
During the great contrail shortage of 2020.
The answer ain’t on TV, not on any of the
Multitude of channels and packages and
Series, even on the “very special episodes”.
The answer ain’t in the mirror, you looked
Before, it wasn’t there, but, well, hell’s bells,
Maybe just one more peek on your way to
Bed. Whaddya know. The goddamn mirror.

I call his name,
And his, “yes, ma’am?”
Makes me pause
Before saying,
“Have a good night.”  

In that,
“Yes, ma’am?”
A flicker of fear,
As his eyes
Slightly widen.

I used to love
When students
Answered,
“Yes, ma’am.”
But now,
All I see is  

A mother
Explaining,
When a white
Woman speaks,
You answer,  

“Yes, ma’am.”

                For A. S., because you always taught
                                 even though it was never your job

You were the bigger guy
our entire childhood
and pre-pubescence.

What more can a poet say
to describe how I saw you
than to mention 

a dream I once had,
where my Prince Adam
changed to your He-Man;

you were always there
fighting my fights, protecting
my diminutive form. 

I always had the louder mouth—
the louder voice—but now,
to read your words,

to hear your voice—
still the bigger man, still
dwarfing me with your power—

but cracking, taken to tears
because of everything
we see, we hear, happening

and not about just now—
about what you’ve always lived—
you’re still healing

my fragility.  You’re still
teaching me what it means
to be a man.  You’re still

helping me recover
from this sickness.

we’ve been collecting
the names of the lost
well before this event
heavy on our shoulders
weary of the

Same
Old
Story  

I can’t say when this will end
when this rupture
this old ancient wound
will close permanently
I am ashamed
to use such weak language
void of the brevity
that surrounds this
tragedy
we’re going to lose more
because of the ignorant and paranoid
who play at being big men who 
are just scared at what the world is
because they made it all this way
they made this happen  

and I wonder where has the reasoning gone
where are those immortal leaders
that rise out of the chaos and save us
save America  
who is going to save us from dying in the street? 

it’s just left to
You and you and you and 
You and you and
You and and and and

Since everything has changed forever, 

This mundane timeline seems to matter.

I would have forgotten it before. 

Last flight + Last Real Trip: January 4

Mexico City. Danza de los Voladores,

The Diego Rivera Murals, 

An elegant meal at La Casa de las Sirenas,

At sunset, overlooking the Zócalo, 

Hours by road though Michoacán

To Sierra Cinqua and Cerro Pelon

Monarch butterflies warming their wings

As the sun shimmered through the trees

In their threatened paradise.

The air so cold and thin at 10,000 feet

I shivered and could hardly breathe.

Last road trip: January 24

A five-hour drive in blinding rain.

Wings of Winter

In improbably named Paris, Tennessee. 

Eagle-watching on Kentucky Lake.

Then slogging through the cold marshes, 

Exclaiming over trumpeter swans.

Last Group Hike at Floracliff: February 22

Winter Tree Identification

The day a brilliant blue.

Sycamore seeds, hornbeam buds,

Locust thorns, the pods of coffee trees.

Every promise of a spectacular spring. 

Last Book Club Meeting: February 23

Poetry night at a member’s country house.

We laughed, drank wine,

Ate too much party food, 

Talked of reading and travel, 

Never thought about Wuhan.

Last swim lesson: February 24

Falling Springs, with Hannah

Practicing to snorkel

In the Indian Ocean this fall.

I won’t be going. 

Last haircut: February 25

No worries there; my hair already gray. 

A simple cut, a few long layers. 

Amazon sells sharp scissors. 

Last public meeting: March 5

Woodford County Public Library

Beginning Vegetable Gardening

Seed packets from the extension office.

The next day, a state of emergency declared.

I planted the pumpkins yesterday. 

Last meal out: March 11

Lunch for my husband’s birthday.

Don Jockey in Midway.

I had the divine poblano dish

With the pomegranate seeds.

We both drank gin for a toast

To a happy and healthy year. 

Last studio yoga class: March 14

The regulars all there, as if summoned

That Saturday morning. 

I awoke knowing I had to go. 

The old body so willing that day, 

Lifting easily into Crow. 

Last private Pilates lesson:  March 19

A weekly ritual for fourteen years. 

My trainer and I, both germaphobes,

Fretted about what would happen next.

We were right.

Last time the housekeeper came: March 19

So I posted a housekeeping schedule.

My husband cleaned the garage.

I cleared neglected closets.

We’ve gotten so good at this

We want to keep it up. 

Our well worn possessions shine.

First mask order: March 21

An odd start to spring. 

The CDC still said don’t wear masks. 

Political nonsense, bound to change. 

The friend who sewed the custom order refused payment.

I donated money to her local food bank instead. 

The World After

I don’t remember the last time casually stopped by a shop,

Left for the grocery without a mask and sanitizing kit,

Didn’t feel frightened if I anyone got too close.

Wasn’t panicked if a touched my face. 

I don’t know when I will ever again board a plane,

Stroll into an elevator, stay in a hotel,

Sit in a restaurant, browse a bookstore,

Book a massage, have a haircut,

Meet with friends and not go home afraid. 

My traveling days are likely over. 

There was a last time for everything.

It was a mercy not knowing when. 

“When I’m by myself, like if I’m birding or if I’m exploring outside, I feel like I have to publicly display that I’m not trespassing or doing something sinister outside,” she said. “I feel like I have to go above and beyond so that the people who are driving by or walking by don’t think that I’m someone they need to call the police on.” –Corina Newsome, a black biology master’s student at Georgia Southern University studying birds, from CNN’s “The realities of being a black birdwatcher”  

Alouette, gentille alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai.  

Lark, nice lark.
Lark, I will pluck you
the song says and it shares
a list of what can be destroyed–
head and beak and neck and feathers—
anything  that lets a singer consume.  

We just accept those words
because we’ve heard them before
and grown-ups sang them
and cartoons played them—
it’s easiest not to question the familiar.  

But the words we memorized, intentionally or not,
are a song of violence.  

An innocent bird,
Innocent black birdwatchers,
A man in a dog park,
A woman asleep in bed,
A man shielding his niece,
People just trying to live,
to love, to breathe.
God in Heaven, how are we not better than this?

Do we dare
without a thought or care, 
turn over dark gray stones
uncover dry old bones
in a fog so thick that we
can only faintly see
the source of mystery?

The candle light flickers
then fades away
casting shadows in
varied shaded of gray. 

Her son is to hang this morning.
She watches him meet each step
grey lead eyes, heavy lead heart
and wonders where she went wrong.

She loved him, once
loves him still,
despite better judgment.

He left her a boy
but came back a Man.
Stripped down
cold in her arms.

How does a Man unlearn 
lessons from a mother?
Words, embraces, stories