sadness on a beautiful day
I ponder if I should allow myself to feel it
or bury it away
I knew I’d meet it head on
yet I bravely proceeded
perhaps I should have saved myself the trouble
obligation though, pulls hard
I admit there is joy as well
sunshine and room to celebrate
markers of time
in the morning quiet, I cry a bit
I won’t go further than that
the few tears will suffice
letting me know the pain is still present
might always be
but I trust time and the Universe
and am thankful for sunshine on difficult days
I am alright, even though sometimes I’m not

take some control
            as knowing
what you understand

            to improve-
try more instead of
       more often

three groundhog kits
poke their noses above ground
fisticuffs and clover

When will I be free of this wad?

A daring creep;
an aimless shrink;
cutting circulation;
imbalance of hug and weep.

Take a stick and shove it. I say!
Groove throbbing, it doesn’t budge.
Internal groaning of my own
moves in for a neurological punch.
PopSwoosh! Miss.

Almost home now.
Trash these and then,
no more pants.
Again.

Wiggling out bedroom window – a little further,

reaching towards railcar siding,

commuter–train roars, shaking security bushes

between rowhouse and track.

Updraft blowing whiffs of dirty-dish-water-blond hair.

Precariously, butt square on weather worn windowsill.

Big toe leading the flex of right foot

Pinching around posts of rare Goodwill find. 

It seemed you could have reached

if stretched a little more.  

Uncoiling even further

not giving one thought to what could happen

if aluminum cladding catches

with soft fingertip. 

Staring down dirt alley

under elevated rails

long after the train clears

listening to the engine

the roar of the train subsides. 

Studying the route until

Brown-line train passed west Warner Avenue

no longer able to tell the difference

between rumbling train and

people busy along the lane.   

I once had occasion 
to stand inside a tree 
that had been hollowed
by lightning or disease,
a tight fit, cramped,
a feeling both at once
of being in a womb and a coffin
so far removed from myself
in that framed space
that the only sound  
was the pulse of the ocean.

I held there waiting
for something to happen —
some finger of light
to guide me back
into my life.

When finally it appeared,
I squeezed back out 
to my waiting self:
the day dragged on,
night came and fell.

Shy little scrawny
knock-kneed girl
finds brio

on the back of a big grey
mare, falls in love
with the warm animal

musk that clings
to her hands and jeans
from the barn, bits

of hay stuck in her hair,
remnants of soft
dusty beast’s breath.  

She feels kinship
with any creature
who would not deny this

world is terrifying
sometimes — she, too, spooks
at her own shadow.

But sensitive beings
are extraordinary
in strength. The horse

teaches her to carry
heavy things
with unmatched grace.

737 destined for Minneapolis
delayed. Alone I munch
on Melba toast & mini-cubes

of mild cheddar. Tuck away my laptop,
make sure my ticket is safe in
the inner pocket of my thigh-length

trench, retie my running shoes. Two
children chatter, their brown
palms pressed against the rain-

splattered window. Dad sits two
feet away, calls them to his side
& opens a glossy paperback,

Make Way for Ducklings. Another day
I might have chatted about my patch
of red peppers, showed him photos

of my Torch Pink Begonias but today
I’m a silent observer. Sometimes
it’s enough to be a human

camera, take in a brief slice
of time, an interruption
of joy. All I want is to sit near

the three of them, listen
to the kids’ voices — tender
& high as an otter’s purr — repeat

passages from the book: 
So they chose a cozy spot among the bushes
near the water & settled down to build their nest.

I take these sudden joys
when I can. There’s another 100-year
flood in Tennessee, street

riots in Minneapolis, but in this
moment, trapped for now in time,
there is true delight.

Los ángeles colegiales

(The Grade School Angels, from Sobre Los Ángeles – Concerning the Angels [1929])

The nightly humming mum of the blackboard chalk
        not one of us understands,
nor why the armillary sphere, exhilarated, dances when 
        we gaze at her.
We only knew next day that her circumference might suddenly
        light into a square dance,
and an eclipse of the moon might mistake the flowers
and spin the bird clocks many
        speeds faster.

No one understands a thing:
not why our fingers were stained with India ink,
why the afternoon closed its rhythms so the dawn could open books.
We only knew a straight line, if it wants, can be broken or curved,
and that the wandering stars are children ignorant of arithmetic.

Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi