Day 8
Quicksilver
Ballet shoes scuffed up fine —
toes at a patina, ribbons frayed
and shiny. On stage she is all
anyone ever wanted, lithe
grace swooping like a bird of prey
over the hearts of every man
in the audience. In her mirror,
the swan returns to the pond
to its awkward start as someone
else’s cast-off. No manner
of applause can undo the sobs that bubble
from where the dancing ends. Lace
edged handkerchief at her bodice,
monogram of her mother in one worn corner.
The music fades into a farmhouse kitchen
radio where, at the four o’clock hour,
Momma would twirl, pirouette
and hold in position, where chicken pies
cooled on the stove and the men
had not yet brought their rough music
to supper. A suitcase packed and hidden
behind the bedroom door, moon
rising in the uncurtained window.
On her dressing table,
a silver lipstick, opened for luck
at the five-minute call. Scent
of Momma and courage, like quicksilver.
Day 9
Deaf Girl
You slide into the driver’s side,
pop on the radio. A blast of music
shocks your very functional ears.
Deaf girl in car. My car, the one I drive,
blares in decibels my ears can find
on the scale. Neil Diamond shouts
to you, or Josh Groban, Madeleine Peyroux.
To me, normal. Music is grander, bigger,
crescendoes to a finish every time,
not just in the symphony hall, under the baton
of the Maestro. But what of night music,
the thrilling frogs, the cheep of birds
saying fare thee well to day? What sounds
come with darkness, to an ear shut down
dead in a singular blast of head-splitting noise?
A ringing, a low whistle, a silver siren. These
are my sounds when all is silent for you.
Slide into my head if you can,
and tell me I live in a soundless world.
Day 10
Love Deeds
—after Henri-Frédéric Amiel
Oh, be swift to love, make hast to be kind
keep the heart of your beloved in care
when you speak of him. Oh be slow
to call foul when he forgets to tell you
of his devotion. It is not kind to remember
any wine left corked, any candle unlit,
the rose still on the bramble at your window.
It is better to recall the tea he brewed
for you each day & quietly left there
at your elbow while your head was bent
in concentration over a word for love.
Day 11
After Little Black Sambo*
When the tiger comes,
Close your eyes and follow him
into the magical forest of sleep.
Give him your beautiful purple shoes
with the crimson soles,
your handsome blue coat,
your green umbrella,
feed him something sweet:
ginger beer poured
over homemade ginger ice cream
or golden pancakes with lakes of syrup.
Turn and face into his roar,
make him accept your gifts.
Teach him to file his teeth, forget
the taste of blood on his tongue.
Show him the garden, the berry patch,
help him learn to sow and reap,
to gather in baskets, to run around
and around and around until he turns to butter.
*In the days before we were aware of the racist nature in some literature for children, Little Black Sambo was a popular children’s story. It was written in 1899 by Helen Bannerman to amuse and entertain her children on a train journey across India.
Day 12
Suitcases of the Insane
Willard Asylum, NY 1800-1995
No part of this is pretty,
suitcases stacked & wrapped,
contents carefully packed
for the moment when asylum doors
might let in sunlight, inmates
flooding out like dust motes
into sweet morning air. Long gone
these travelers: promiscuous
girls whose only defect was financial,
mommies whose grief lingered
beyond what society deemed normal
after losing a baby, men who preferred men,
girls whose lovers were other girls,
soldiers shell-shocked into catatonia.
abandon all hope, ye who enter here
No part of this is fair,
treasures of lives in leather boxes,
valises. Flora T, epileptic,
packed her vials of strychnine sulfate,
her needles and syringes, a silver teaspoon,
her party shoes. Charles, a musical man,
brought his zither. Did he play tunes
to keep himself calm?
In so many cases clocks, stopped
like so many futures here.
Peter L, that dapper gent, packed up his toilette,
Vitalis, Yardley, Peterson’s soap,
silver-backed brushes, morning newspaper,
dated March 22, 1941, no war yet
save for the one inside Peter.
abandon all hope, ye who enter here
Eleanor G brought several cases,
no trans-Atlantic cruise for her, confinement
forever, and a grave with a number
her final destination. What was she told?
Take everything, dear. It will be an adventure.
Ration books, perfume vials, crystal
paperweights, a toy pistol. Playing cards
and Henry L’s prosthetic leg, handmade
and pricey for the day, unhinged to fit
the valise he brought. Letters, stamped
& never on their ways to lovers or friends,
a lucky rabbit’s foot with no luck at all.
WWII military uniform,
in mint condition, springs from a suitcase
with no name attached. MIA. No
booze can hotel for the suffering,
no cardboard beds in doorways, just suitcases
packed for journeys into dark forever.
abandon all hope, ye who enter here
Day 13
Book Hangover
8 friends have read it:
3 put it down after 6 chapters
citing a lack of plot
or poor character development,
5 are waxing eloquent about how
the ending made them cry.
What’s wrong with me?
I can’t leave the last book:
the characters’ lives, the setting,
keep me unable to move
on to the new book. Oh those 4 girls
and their loves, the mother
who doesn’t let them date
so they have to slide down
the trellis at night for a little
romance at the back of the garden.
It’s 1 o’clock in the morning,
book group is a mere 12 hours
from now and I’m awake
contemplating reading the synopsis
of this new book, all the while
re-reading page 134 of the last book
just to feel how Janet felt
when Marcus slipped his hand
under her blouse. What’s wrong with me?
Day 14 This poem is a fractured sonnet, 2 stanzas of 7 lines each, with each followed by a rhymed couplet (nearly the same wording). The rhyme scheme for the 2 main stanzas is unique.
NOTE: Willard Asylum was the final home for many women who lost babies, did not recover from their grief in three months time.
Day 14
could only cry and write herself to sleep.
The poem vanished in her brown valise,
babies’ crying in the walls did not cease
at night; came like ghosts in swaddling sheets
to drive away her sleep. This mournful state
that would not leave her, sealed her fate.
‘til it lost its will to stay, and then was gone.
into a suitcase, owner long deceased,
a sonnet. Fourteen sorrowed lines
a careful scrawl, a mother’s unsigned
masterpiece of mania, rhymed
couplet at the end a telling testimony
to loss that conquered all sanity.
‘til it lost its will to stay, and then was gone.
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