I know about the mockingbird
Because I saw that movie.
Dill and Jem and Jean Louise
And Atticus are groovy.
Then yesterday a mockingbird
Alit near me two times.
His crazy trills and warbling
Contained their own weird rhymes.
I listened to him carefully;
He sat and sang quite gladly.
I got more from that mockingbird
Than I did from Boo Radley.
After last night’s storm,
after the crack and boom
of cold air rushing in
under the door of our stagnant
heat while the dogs whimpered
to be let in, after atmospheric
disturbance stirred up
our barometric passion
and surprised us with
an intensity of charged particles,
after the rush of rain
stampeded across the metal roof
and the thrust of wind
tore at all our postbellum joints,
after long minutes of a tender
uncertainy when we held together
in the swell of time
and after the coincidence of climax
when the darkling clouds
moved off to the east,
we rested in the stillness
and silence of distant lightning
They look stubborn. It seems as though
the peonies on my kitchen counter
have not been notified it is their job to bloom
and fill my life with joy.
Green-leafed stalks with the bulb on top, but pink.
Like artichokes gone wild.
I know the feeling of being taunted, and this is it.
In stomps the preteen from his neighborhood jaunts.
He isn’t mad, he just stomps. I think his bones
have grown so fast he can’t keep up with them.
I watch him at the refrigerator with the milk,
at the snack cabinet with the beef jerky.
He puts an apple in his pocket and I remember
when the only thing he would eat was goldfish
and avocados. I remember telling myself
he’ll grow out of it,
and hoping I was right.
He waves at me. We’re on friendly terms.
I watch him walk out the door then turn
myself again, to a flower in full bloom.
Three days of watching and the magic happens
when I’m distracted.
Maybe it’s always that way.
Maybe everything needs to be left alone to blossom.
sit at my desk
coffee in hand
paper in typewriter
fresh ribbon
blank page
nothing to say
deadline
hurts to be empty
no fire in gut
no profound epiphanies
no control
just waiting
nothing to say
deadline
blank page
sit coffee down
spin the platen
wad the paper
in the trash
pull out fresh sheet
spin into place
blank page
hands on typewriter
wait
wait
nothing to say
how long will this last
mind resists thought
heart resists feeling
blank page
nothing
deadline past
nothing to say
set to boil
behind his back.
candlelit shadow-
captive cloudless skies.
blankfaced
in plain sight
he never looks surprised.
i’m 21 now the same age as you when we met and now you are 23
now i am you and you play the role of a younger me
you drop yourself off at my house
seeing i’m the one with the messy room this time
setting your shoes at the foot of the bed but now the bed is mine
in the morning you lace up your feet and
i prepare myself for this to be the last time every time that you leave
and then you turned 24. you wear my clothes home then fold them into your drawer
[with the underwear i left there]
you’ve got a few things in your room that aren’t mine anymore
New streaks of cloud
in her thinning brown
mane. Translucent wrinkles
etch & trickle across
the skinmap of her arms
& hands. The red maple
grows a foot & mid-sized
boulders tumble unpredictably
from rockface, becoming
scree. When the moon
glows like a soup
spoon Sarah lays down
her loneliness & summons
the lover slaughtered
in Viet Nam—Easter
Offensive, 1972. She craves
him, recalls the brush
of his barely-grown
beard on her neckbone. Signals
accumulate —an old-growth
poplar felled by lightning, giant
oak blown over the creek
by a Nor’easter. At the hour
of owlspeak—& just before
moonset—she’s certain
she can hear his bluesharp wailing.
The opening
wine and cheese reception
for my life
has been canceled
due to the current outbreak
of something or other
but I’ll remain on view
by appointment
till the end of this month
or when everything
has been sold,
whichever comes first.
spilled milk
sitting with the uncomfortable tears
finding an old pair of jeans
that i can’t fit into anymore
not letting my plants reach death
mornings where we rise with the sun
and the sleepy afternoons that follow
getting caught in the rain
finding friends in unexpected places
spelling our names out by the fire
kissing you like it’s a promise
whispered dreams of where we will go next
and what june will bring
