I tried to dress like Diane Keaton
in boxy blazers and man trousers.
I wore a long strap that crossed
the front of me and held my purse
at my side.
I wore a hybrid hat bred
from a bowler and a fedora.
I wanted to exude joie de vie,
but I looked like a little boy
who had rummaged
in the attic.
I couldn’t carry it off,
for I’m no Diane Keaton,
nor will I ever be,
nor will anyone.
I am from apple orchards, muck farms,
and yellow boxes of film.
I am from the college bars featuring Canadian woodsmen
and Air Force men dancing to Purple Rain and Pressure.
I am from silent classrooms filled with only the sound of pens scratching on paper
and classrooms made raucous by a zoo-based role-playing game.
I am from a silenced alarm clock
and emptied calendar with only daily Blackboard check-ins to ground me.
Reflective Thought
Writing with music is an
exercise in crossword poetry
that directs bitterness to live among
the bottom squares while complacency
runs pole support for the happy, sexy, personal
agendas that swing freely as three, four, five-letter words
run across and down the ideas that seem impossible to discover.
Declarative Thought
Wedding bands are ridiculous. What can be slipped on
can be slipped off with little difficulty, and anything stuck is
usually removable with soap or determination. Marry yourself.
Spend more time in bed analyzing your own probabilities than making
chili or cornbread for the one who sometimes rolls the can in from the curb.
Vibe Thought
This morning, the sun is telling me to
run with open arms toward its warmth and
never look back. No, never look back at the crumbled
balls of lined paper notes that held the architecture of flowerbeds,
dinner parties, and all the ways to hide the fragile things that are meant to be held,
not heard, not seen.
No wedding rings, recordings, or trees were harmed or used during the writing of this poem.
Hoo-ee, that really was a long day wasn’t it! (yawn) It’s nearly midnight!
Time to get ready for bed, doesn’t that sound all lovely and relaxing?
Yes? I thought so. I know I’m ready for some shut eye.
Now, let’s get you all tucked in. Did you floss? Take your vitamins? Skin care? Soft PJs? Cat and dog nestled comfortably (or more likely, uncomfortably) on/ under your legs? How’s the temperature? Maybe just a degree or two cooler on the AC? I thought so. There, I adjusted it for you.
Feeling good? Cozy? Relaxed?
Ready for lights out?
Perfect.
Now, close your eyes and fall asleep.
Just… fallllll asleep.
It’s easy, just…… falllllllllllll….. asleeeeeeeeeeep………….
*
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*
You’re not asleep.
Why are your eyes still open?
Oh, that coyote scream you heard, that gunshot?
Ignore that. The zoning board just approved the new data center plan.
Those headlines? The government is now doing what to who?
Nothing you can do about it right now. I told you to put your phone down.
Your neighbor that went to pick their child up from school and never came back? Disappeared to a dungeon in Louisiana, or Texas, or Guatemala?
Ignore that too. Go to sleep.
The test results your Dad is waiting on? That persistent pain he’s had?
Put that away. I told you, he won’t hear back from the doctor for at least another week.
Oh, and those bills you can’t quite pay yet, deal with that tomorrow. Remember, only half a tank of gas while these prices are so high. Remember, Olivia needs new shoes for soccer. Remember to get dog food. Remember to get tuna to bribe the cat to let you trim her claws before she destroys another patch of carpet. Stop fidgeting, she’s trying to cuddle up to your feet. So, you didn’t fold the laundry again, so what. And the dishes will wait too. You’ll be 50 in a year or two, isn’t that a kick? What? You think it’s strange how quickly life is flying be? That you’ve only just now gotten started and it’s already the second half? You’re wondering if you’ll make it to 80, 90, and what might await you there? And the kids? Will they be OK? And Lisa and her wife? And Rajan and their partner? I guess you’re probably menopausing right now, huh? Six months since your last period. Weird. Remember to keep a tampon in your purse just in case. Wonder if you need HRT? Was that a hot flash the other day? Is that why your hips hurt so much in the morning? You were 12 when you got your first period, remember that camping trip? Maria is afraid she’s pregnant and doesn’t know what to do. Might have to take her out of the state for help. You’ll have to figure out where to go that might be safe. Of course you’ll help, of course you’ll keep volunteering. As a matter of fact, you ought to be volunteering more. Check your pantry tomorrow for another food donation, check on Mrs. Jeffries down the street, her son is still in prison and he shouldn’t be. He’s still recovering from the officer’s beating. Check on Ben, he doesn’t have insurance anymore.
Just stop thinking about it all right now, you’re supposed to be sleeping, dummy.
Oh- and whatever you do, don’t be late for work again. Do you even know what time it is? You shouldn’t be up this late. You need this job. What would you do without this paycheck? Lose the house for sure. You spent the savings to get this far, and now there’s nothing extra to put away.
So go to sleep! Don’t you know that persistent lack of sleep can lead to all sorts of serious health problems?! I’m talking stroke and heart attack. Oh- and did you know that the symptoms of heart attacks in women are often really hard to identify? Like you could be having one and not even know it? Isn’t that a crazy thing?
So go to sleep.
I said, GO TO SLEEP.
*
*
*
*
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I can tell you’re just pretending.
Oh, and by the way, it’s your nephew’s birthday tomorrow and you forgot to send a card.
Weeding
The rocks under my knees
keep me grounded
as I pull up grass
and weeds
that have grown
between the cucumbers
and green beans.
I really need to weed
the zucchini,
I mutter
under my breath.
Still pulling.
Still yanking.
Observing exactly
what I am uprooting
from the earth.
I can’t help
but feel empathy
for those plants
I hurt.
1881, in a small house in Avondale,
Newfoundland, grandpop
was born 145 years ago.
Mine is about the only memory
in which he still exists.
Sweet canned peaches. He’d open some
when Dad and I would visit him, rarely,
in his Camden rowhouse, 70 + years ago.
I was an unindulged child.
Though Dad would
sometimes recollect a harsh childhood
with a mean, unloving father, it’s 145 years
and no one’s left to dispute
my grandpop celebration of
sweet
syrupy
peaches.
I use to note their location
consider mass eradication
if I should ever have the energy
Now, I note their location
knowing their fruit – rose hip
will be a welcome source of
vitamin C if the
shit ever hits the fan
I was cleaning out the garage, to downsize,
opened a cabinet and stared
at thirty years of teaching.
Each contained in as many photo albums.
How have I forgotten these treasures?
It hasn’t been that long ago!
A first collection, at a new school—
competitions and recitations
and ribbons of the rainbows.
Smiling faces.
One, Becca in a white spring hat and pink sundress.
She looks up: ¡Señora!
Her voice jumps off the page,
Aren’t you proud?
Sí. And I was.
Another image of teens creating piñatas after school.
I feel the tackiness of the glue, hear:
¿Bueno?
Me: Sí. ¡Fantástico!
Another appears—
an ordinary day in class.
Tables in a big circle, as always, in an English class.
Someone asked, Did Dickens write anything besides A Christmas Carol?
Yes. I recall that winter break
delving into David Copperfield,
hot chocolate in hand each day,
to share a few passages.
A handful of photos.
A few of many memories.
To keep where?
Another album calls.
I’m not ready to let go.
I pile all into a box.
Wonder and wander back.
Who was I then?
I made it to bed late that day, after
taping it all up. All still—
of a lifetime ago.
Who am I now?
Who will I be?
Will I remember it all?
