This week is a jumble of poems that zig and zag between topics. Included is a poem about my name, which is a recently revised poem. I chose to revisit this older poem rather than do a new one for this topic. I want you all to see the new iteration, the homage to my father.
Day 1
You’re No Mister Rogers
Harold B of Orchard Street is it you
we ought to blame
for building your house
in such a way that water won’t absorb
and floods down here to irk
my neighbor lady
when it flows so heavy, so profuse
her cellar becomes
a righteous swimming pool?
Is it your driveway hard, not grass,
that heaves in winter, warm enough
to break the ice
that melts and follows gravity
to her cellar door? I think you know
it is; I think you must not care
the woe you cause
for us lowlanders living here.
My neighbor hasn’t met you, nor have I,
but everyone down hill
from you has vowed
that no invites to friendly summer
barbeques will flow up hill you,
since we are pretty sure
your water is what causes us such grief,
with no apology, without relief.
Day 5
Dusting is Heavenly
Lift each piece of bric-a-brac,
each tiny vase or glass cat,
each shell collected, saved
and stacked on every shelf
that’s out of reach except
by stool or Swiffer on a pole.
Move every framed memory
of that party everyone attended,
the photos of your wedding day,
and all the children grown
and gone. Don’t forget
the Wedgwood cups and bowls.
Divide the house into time zones:
single years, divorce days,
falling for husband #2 time,
raising kids, the big move.
Organize, be efficient.
Strike out from your bed early.
Your home reflects you, some crazy
apron-wearing girl once espoused ...
but you, you know the simple truth:
the dust will win
if you don’t get it first, and even then
it will cover you when you are dead.
Day 3
Catching
I remember doors,
the door I opened to let you
come up the stairs
I remember your feet scuffing
over. The door to your bedroom
and the smell of you in the sheets
when I opened the door
to your bathroom after. Doors
open and close both times
when IDors leave, open and go out
then hear the latch catch
like your voice whispering
good-bye darling girl as I slipped
down the street beneath the window
to the bedroom
where you would not sleep
the rest of the long long night.
Day 4
A Carol
My parents wanted me
to be alive, to unfold over time
from a curved fish in the corner
of my mother’s womb, to the woman
you see now in the center of things.
I started in my father’s eye, a light
flicking, a chuckle clicking in his voice,
I was the song he sang to stay alive
in cold Zwickau’s winter nights.
My mother held her breath
and pushed me out, dark-eyed girl,
made of earth and snowfall.
I was given a holiday name
for the gift they shared.
They said my name aloud
and I became their song.
Day 5
Rain
In your two apartments,
both under some married people
and their sleeping children, we lie
listening to rain, hope for a downpour
not a popup shower that passes on.
We choose this. We decide it
and no one can say no. We don’t ask.
We don’t care about anything
except our bodies reaching
places that feel like paradise.
It rains and rains; we feel warmed
by it. We call it music.
In Enkenbach, wet leaves
stick to our shoes
as we race inside to undress
each other, forgetting the boxes
of schnitzel we bought for supper.
I saved one leaf for a long time,
until it crumbled into dust
in a book of poems I was reading,
a book about losing.
Your ring
from a marriage that failed
is in the other room where I don’t go
except to assure myself you love me.
I wear a pearl ring. I’ve heard pearls
bring tears. It must be true the rain said.
I’ve lost
(misplaced) the note you wrote me
the day we decided to end it. I am
the finest person you have ever met
you said then. You didn’t write loved
for fear the husband I was taking back
would make me pay for that love.
I’ve misplaced (lost) your note.
Another downstairs apartment,
another ring in the other room,
this new and waiting ring. I can feel it
all night. We shopped for steak
and mushrooms to broil, raspberries,
cream to whip, chocolate sprinkles.
You say love all night for three nights.
You write love in my hair, on my eyelids.
Then we end it again, you asking
if I’ll be alright soon; I say so
of course for your sake.
We never wanted to be finished
with love. We missed it,
the pearls of rain on the windows
coming down beside us
in Ithaca where we listened
to our breath all night for three nights,
each of us quiet, awake,
thinking we might misplace love
if we fall asleep, or forget the rain.
There is more love than the music
can hold, then there is nothing
except me on a plane, watching ice
crystals form on a window
too small to hold you, too high
for there to be rain
enough to wash away anything.
(There are times now
when I have raspberries,
I can feel you
eating them out of my mouth
like music or a downpour or a pearl.)
Day 6
Elemental Eve
— after “LOVE” by Robert Indiana
Even if he were the best,
even if he were famed
for what he did with LOVE,
he got the materials wrong
the way men sometimes do:
metal that rusts, corrodes
paint that peels, flakes.
It’s elemental, she says.
Made of flower parts, rain,
angled sunlight, the tide
coming over and over, filling
everyone, teasing their hearts.
Eve, Pieta of the Old Testament,
found the body of Abel,
washed him with her own salt.
She knew about LOVE, spread open
the V of her lap for him as once
she did when he swam
from her into the tide.
Even if he knew the secrets
his brother harbored,
he could not
have stopped coming,
she would not have
stopped his coming.
For all his mother’s tears,
O, LOVE, not even for love.
Day 7
Girl of Baseball
Can’t run, catch, hit, throw
so baseball is out
as a career, a Saturday play thing,
a team where I can shine.
No smell of freshly carved out
diamond, no standing
on the mound to the roar
of frenzied fans.
No Hall of Fame
or MVP for this girl,
just the ultimate fan,
the wife with all the scores
stats and facts
about the boys of baseball:
Yaz’s retired 8, Mark “the Bird” Fidrych’s
awky stance, rookie of the year in ’76,
Sale of the Babe for 100 grand
and over 80 years of curse in return,
Wade Boggs’ 3000 hit in ’96,
Sox win-loss to the pinstripe by memory.
Can’t run, catch, hit, or throw
but man on man, this girl’s got it made,
a favorite with all her hubby’s pals
who wish their wives would even watch the game.
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