No, dear, you take it
this is your favorite
you are more deserving
of the last serving
Knowing this treasure
brings you such pleasure
I want you to have it –
please savor each bite
I’ll forego a treat
so enjoy it, my sweet
the least I can do
is leave it to you
Your words are too kind
but I hope you don’t find
stashed under my socks
the other cookie box
innocently,
she points out that
you can see the chrysanthemums from where we sit on the balcony
and bittersweetly i lean over the edge to find
the deep green bush
littered with flowers the size of my hand
with tissue paper petals,
blooming first green, then baby blue
and she’s right;
they’re beautiful.
i can’t remember if that’s a name i used to call you
or one your friends made up
or maybe just one that makes me think of you,
but i think of you all the same.
i drive by your college on my way to work
and sometimes i wonder
if you’ll order a coffee one day,
catching me by surprise in the drive-thru window,
neither of knowing how to say what we want to say
and that somehow being enough.
that something being better than nothing.
sometimes i try to imagine your life now,
but for all that i’ve changed in two years
i can’t imagine
you’re much the same at all.
i think you wouldn’t recognize me now
if you saw me.
i hope you’re different like that, too;
i hope you’re better.
sometimes i hope you forgave me,
but how could you when
i never said sorry?
so,
if i never get the chance to,
if you’re never in the mood for a hot chai latte
and catching me by surprise at the drive-thru window,
if distance still hurts less than getting closure, then-
oh-
hi!
you look like you’re doing well- oh, me? yeah,
i’m so good, actually,
thanks for asking,
god it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?
yeah, i mean,
shit, i’m sorry about everything-
right yeah, no yeah, totally.
alright well here’s that chai-
yeah, thank you,
no, of course,
and you, too,
and, uh, take care, okay?
alright, bye.
Let’s say your marriage was failing. And in an attempt
to stitch together what you could
you rose early, even before the cat (still warm
as a bagel on the bed),
and you showered but didn’t wash your hair;
you dressed, applied winged eyeliner with the skill of a surgeon.
Skipped coffee though you wanted some,
left the house
(your husband just rousing)
and made a right at the first traffic light.
Let’s also say you bought the rack of lamb
(it was out of your budget)
and you spent 30 good minutes
piecing together the night’s menu.
(You even found mint jelly though you had to make
a trip to a second grocery store.)
You cleaned the kitchen. You prepped.
Your mise en place
was as perfect as only you could perfect it.
Let’s say the living room was tidy and you found the pillar
candles (unceremoniously stuffed
in the second drawer of the buffet)
and you retrieved the lighter
from the mantle and everything was just right,
and your hair appointment was at 4
so you left at 3:30, arrived 15 minutes early,
and the stylist seated you anyway
and you warmly chatted while you were in the chair,
and she told you of her kids and her husband,
and oh by the way how is yours?
and you lied and said great!
and suddenly the room was an ocean and you
were a small island buoyed by your own relentless will.
And when she was done she turned you to the mirror and you saw
a lighthouse, a lighthouse! The astounding heat emanating
from the face of your Fresnel lens, the acetylene roiling
below. All of the sea searching your radiance,
and such was your rapture that at first as you walked outside
you didn’t even notice
the trees bent in agony, the Pomeranian flying through the sky,
leash trailing like a balloon string.
The world undone in one gust!
And so lucky were you to have made it safely to your car,
(the rocking just now slowing)
that you rested your forehead against the steering wheel.
Then looked in the mirror,
your beautiful hair now seaweed beached on the shore.
So you sit.
Put the car in reverse.
Head home.
Eyeliner streaking from the lamps of your eyes.
After days of rain, snap peas
ripen, sorrel sweet, nip at
cheek and tongue, give way under
teeth grateful for the cooling
crunch. My bowl set down, I eat
right from the vines – as I plan
their demise to make room for beans.
Yesterday, I helped you start the procedure of throwing your life
into suitcases and duffel bags for the next six weeks.
Helped you arrange veins of shoes (pencil heels, sandals, sneakers)
and buildups of clothing (tunics, kurtas, salwar kameez, jeans, trousers),
helped you piece together itineraries (airport, aunt’s then cousins’ houses)
and dissect instructions (passports, boarding passes, smiles at the gate),
helped you stitch in place the smallest and most tedious of your tasks.
And oh . . . I see just how much effort we put into simply existing.
Some days she walked in the cold riverbed
sometimes just to go somewhere as if
looking at her cold feet gave her immunity
from natural predators. How does one season,
for a few minutes, harvest out the stressors
and imprint just such adoptive moments, un-
stellar otherwise, that discourage pests, diseases
and disproportionate blue shrugs? O lord,
to ask the right question.
The heat of the sun
bears down harshly
then a soothing breeze
will comfort overheated flesh
providng a respite of coolness
on a scorching day
Poem, too, slips lost between the cushions, breaking into nameless crumbs.
(Note: An American sentence is a variation on the haiku and was invented by Allen Ginsburg.)
Kenny Rogers wrote “Sweet Music Man,”
and so many greats covered the tune,
but my favorite? His eventual duet-
buddy Dolly Parton’s version.
She left a music man in ’74,
her star too big for the Porter Wagoner show.
She covered Kenny’s song in ’78 or so,
but they didn’t sing together til the 80s,
when Dolly broke through movies 9-to-5,
and the entire world was in its big change
toward whatever we have now–
in 2021, things are much better!
But also: much worse
(especially for music men
that ain’t so sweet).
