15 May 2014

Every Other Weekend

I expect to her it felt like failure,

eight steps down to the basement,

fifty precious dollars less a month

than the first floor with a balcony rail

and a partially obstructed view to the future.

This is why they call it garden level,

I always thought,

brushing by her irrepressible hanging plants,

craving the cool surrender of descent

over the sweat and elbows of climb.

I remember myself reflected infinitely

in the six paneled mirror

around the clawfoot tub,

three steps up on carpet, with stage lighting—

an extravagant queen’s welcome

for not yet breasts and misdirected teeth.

The 2am freight train

rattled hollow doors and the electric stove,

barely moved the wood block picture frame

wedged between the Big Book

and a Christmas cactus.

She worried I could not sleep through it.

I tried not to.
The predictable, dream-riddled earthquake
was assurance,
that the world can shake mightily

and not crumble.

9 May 2014

Capacity

Curious how this first talk over tea, 
strangers becoming acquaintances,

makes me think
of inchworms. 

Especially that spring

when they rained down

from the trees in the backyard

by the hundreds.

The first few that appeared

on the windshield

inspired my daughter to action

building private homes out of quahog shells

with leaf beds and leaf dinners

and little flowerheads

for atmosphere.

On the second day,

construction couldn’t keep pace,

Materials were in short supply, 

and the furnishings and decor suffered. 

Some of our heaven sent friends
had to bunk up.

By day three,

the car as iridescent green

as it was its native blue,

she was inconsolable.

Every departure down the driveway

was a genocide.

Now you are here telling stories

of couch surfing, 

held by the kindness of strangers.

Something an inchworm would do—

base jumper, intrepid adventurer—

if only it didn’t take a lifetime

to cross those fifteen cement blocks

marking off the patio. 

On a given day, you arrive,
vibrant and sincere,

but all the beds are already taken.

They say construction is underway,

but God knows

it will be generations of inchworms
to see it done.

8 May 2014

The Proposition

Something about the way you ask—

“How can I see you again?”—

makes me want to put on different robes.

Because nothing fits, anything can be worn

for a while.

And I’ll let you, of course, see me—

because earnest desire pleases me,

and because I am unsure if we are here at all

outside of being noticed.

But the how is just the question, isn’t it?

I think maybe I’ll show up as someone simple
this time.

Just imagine—

No old, weeping wounds still being nursed.

No visions of treacherous strangers

taking my bed as their own.

No grand work to accomplish. 

Just some stories about picking blueberries

on hot hills in distant summers,

amusing misunderstandings and fender benders,

and a European backpacking trip
that changed my life when I was 22. 

And now a well-worn reading nook in my apartment

that catches some sunlight,

an impish resistance to gossip,

enough work to buy tangerines and freesia

every week at the market where we meet,

and soundless pictures of making love in new places

in the afternoon, no urgency.

I could try it on.

Months could go by before

what’s been written and said
finds its way to you.