May Poetry, Week 2

Day 8

Ghost Bug
             for Cynthia

There it is, in her sock,
a hitchhiker 
brought in from the garden.
It feels the warmth
of her blood, tastes the sweat
of her shin. Boring deep
without a pinch, it settles,
grows fatter with its meal.

Soon she will grow mysteriously
ill, no signs of the deed
save a circle, like a bullseye,
a spot unnoticed for days.

Tiny intruder, pencil dot small,
and all this disaster. Not long
ago the whole thing maligned:
malingering, laziness, hypo-
chondriasis (accused like fibromyalgia
or chronic fatigue). Lyme.
Destroyer tick, riding 
on those pretty deer we feed,
lurking in the lush of the yard.





Day 9

Radicle

first of roots to grow,

like you from me, stretching

in my belly, attached and 

absorbing. I make food for you,

make a bed well mulched

with everything I have

that will prosper you

and make you ready 

for the day 

when first sunlight

strikes your face. I am yours,

my little radicle: your

terrarium & incubator, lover

of the unseen for 40 weeks,

but part of me I'll recognize:

little budding one, tiny vine

curled around my heart always.

Day 10

Radiotracer

Element 49, soft

fusible, post-transitional 

metal, rare. Useful

for liquid crystal displays,

touch-screens. Thin

blue line on the spectrum,

indigo blue: Indium.

Zinc gives it up, grains

of native metal,

like the people

of Ndakina, dangerous

in contact 

with those who don’t heed

the warning:

not of commercial importance.

Element 49, rare

low melting point.

Day 11

On Nashua Street

At night, tucked in upstairs
not ready to sleep; my eyes followed
the lights from cars passing 
on Nashua Street, beams swooshing
dormer windows, sounds 
like ships’ wakes or wind hushing.

Downstairs adult games, pinochle
or whist, cribbage (fifteen-two,
fifteen-four and two are eight)
and conversation I couldn’t quite hear.
Nana’s footsteps at the door,
milk and brownies for the sleepless.

On Nashua Street, memories
of happy nights under the roof 
that sags now, that soon will tumble 
and fall, a place where only ghosts watch 
the headlights pass, hear the swoosh 
of their own bedclothes.




Day 12

The Dress

In an acid-free box, folded carefully,
Mary Lincoln’s party dress, sprigs
of fading strawberries, green
and purple ruffs at the sleeves,
original lace where it would 
have encircled her neck. 

Oh how she tried
to cheer a nation newly at war, 
strawberry parties a spring answer
to the bloody war of brothers
raging to its grim conclusions. 

Mary, did you shop for hope? Did you go
to the countryside to gather it
in baskets, sweet fruit to quell
the bitter tastes of battle? 

Your husband worried for the nation, 
felt the pains of battle, wanted to hide
the strife, so he decreed to you: 
carry on my dear, cheer us with heart fruit
festivals, that this pain may pass us by. 

So you, Mary Todd, dutiful wife, 
donned blood-red strawberries on a field
of black silk, knowing in your heart
what mourning was to overtake us.





Day 13

The Last Poem

This is it, the last, really,
I mean it this time.

No more words or lines
traipsing across the page,
no more rhymers or metaphors,
no more meter, & for the love of God,
no more syntax. 

I want a rest, a vacation, a hiatus, 
maybe retirement on a porch 
where someone will come 
in the afternoons with chocolate-
covered berries, champagne
in a crystal flute. 

I deserve a poem-free life.
Wait a minute, that makes me think
about the way berries splash open
on the tongue, the way champagne
bubbles fizz the nose, the way a porch
opens memories of that aunt 
who clicked her teeth
to the rhythm of the rocker.

I’ll quit tomorrow 
after I write the actual last poem.
Or maybe next week.





Day 14

On Center Street 

Pulling into the yard —
home again, home again,
jiggedy-jog, suitcases heavier
than when they went 
out. Steps on the porch
a creaky welcome, lock’s familiar
click and turn. Home again,
home again, jiggedy-jig.

Did we leave that light on? 
Was someone here?
Mail piled neatly on the table,
plants perky, upright. Vase
of flowers from the yard.

Back to center, 
back home where 
your neighbor has your key.