Day 1
Coffee House
At a corner table, heads close,
doing the Sunday Times crossword
sitting exactly like this every week
for years, on the same side
of the table, facing the street, away
from the rest of us with our lattes.
Their fingers move over the folded paper.
Using pens instead of pencils,
they are sure of the answers.
They never cheat.
She’s the beauty, he’s the brain —
so you might think.
He gets every tenth word, only
with her help. She pats his hand,
the hand that’s held hers for decades.
I told you black, she says.
He says, I didn’t think you meant that.
Day 2
Motherly
—The base of all inks
and pigments is seawater. Seamus Heaney
If mothers held conch shells
to their ears during labor
they’d be more careful
to save the water than flooded
from them like a great salt sea
heading for shore, bearing myth
and history. They’d wait
between pains for the Mystery
to roll in, clutching brief stars
in one hand, tears in the other.
If mothers could make their labor beds
of kelp and sand, if they could sing
songs they learned before
their own births, no child would die
of loneliness or despair. The base of all
ink is salt, pigment’s black lava salt.
If mothers could hear the words
spoken by angels at the moment of birth,
echoed in the shells of their ears, write
the incantations on their palms,
they would grow strong as the tide.
Later, floating in the water they saved,
they would remember their own births,
see their mothers as heroes.
Day 3
School’s On
Wild as weeds running paths
to brick and mortar old
as their great grandmothers,
they sport sloppy jeans and tees
with New Direction emblazoned
on the front, stalk each other
for this year’s homecoming dates.
Time to dust and vacuum
and pull out the space bags
of winter wear. Get the place
ready for tabletops loaded down
with homework, backpacks,
after school snacks.
Time too for mothers everywhere
to sit on their front steps, fluted
glasses in hand, weary smiles
on their faces, looking to the sky,
the newly slanting sun,
from whence cometh their help.
Day 4
Shoes
No use trying to walk in high heels
on water; even a path painted
through the forest can slide
if it’s not dry, make you tumble.
Like in fourth grade or fifth
when no one picked you
for dodge ball, even though
the object was to knock down
the one picked.
Dorothy dances down
her yellow bricks,
trusts Emerald City
is just around the bend
or over the rainbow.
Her ruby slippers are sensible
shoes, nothing bewitching
to trip her up,
make the ending unhappy.
Day 5
Boston Marriage, c. 1890s
When ladies were alone, by way of death
or accidental fortune, they never spoke
of being on the dole, of material
too painful to declare. A camera shot
of two such women might reveal
their Boston marriage, the arrangement
some said that gave them oars
in storm-wracked loneliness.
If Sarah and Annie threw in their coins
to make the rent, if they ate at table
just the two of them, no more
man in sight, could they be framed
by society’s polite, accused of something
darker than ladylike and proper news?
And if they cry at night for someone
else’s arms, then what will be the harm
to light the parlor lamp together and to kiss?
Day 6
Ghosts at the Hotel
The maid cannot scrub the place
of lovers and their secrets.
Ghosts of other lovers
watch from the ceiling, the drapes,
the half-open door of the bath.
For them, it’s like a movie,
a flickering on the TV screen
as night comes to its end.
You cannot make them look away,
no matter if you keep the sheets
tight to your necks, the music
of yourselves muted and low.
They sigh, glance at one another,
wondering what that ache is
she whispers about as you dress
to leave her, the scent of her on you,
lingering and dangerous.
Day 7
In the Pink Parlor
— Oceanic Hotel, Isles of Shoals
Swing out of the frame,
squint or take off
your glasses, and there
they are, ruffle-hemmed girls
walking arm-in-arm. They pass
in the mirror glass faded to silver,
hanging askew enough to catch them.
If you know where to look, you’ll see
them as they go by. The younger,
hair tied with ribbons, holds a book,
open to something worthy of a laugh
you cannot hear. The elder holds
a cigarette, forbidden perhaps
by her father, who hovers in the lobby.
No smoke, no danger of fire,
no ash to drop on the carpet
they do not walk upon. I wonder
do they see me here too? I am quiet enough
they may just mistake me for one of them.
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