sunday

We, living things,

we like to stick together

cat asleep on my chest

rising and falling with breath,

tucking a furry forehead against my chin

clinging together for warmth

or is there something else

eyes droop

never enough time to tell

light a candle against the darkness

go on, wasting candle upon candle

as if light could be wasted

as if we are finite, possible

to enclose

now I’m writing poems about cats

about loneliness with red roses on the table

about light in the dead of winter

about trying again and again

you can’t tell me a thing

water streaming show the way

the shortest distance between the points

the search was over, then on again, over and on

take your inspiration, run,

looking back, back, furthest back

I never liked sitting in front

we should feel lucky, maybe, that when our souls turn the corner

(the edges begin brittling

our shirts start skunking in the drawer),

our eyes dull over and the richest foods taste awful –

it’s time to move

not

|-------|---|----------|----------|||-----------|

but

. . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . .

looking long enough

it’s hard not to find a pattern

I wish I could say I loved extremes

but give me a 75 degree afternoon any day

add a fresh lemonade, a quiet yard, a doting smart aleck

and I’ll stay

Talking to a seven-year-old

Q: My mom is waiting for me outside at the playground.

A:I know. I have to leave in 5 minutes too, let’s finish up.

(Focus boy, don’t you know the pleasure of a task well done?)

Q: Is your mom waiting for you?

A: No, I’m just going home.

(My mom is always with me now. No more waiting.)

Q: What about your mom? Don’t you have to do something for her?

A: I don’t have to do what she says anymore.

(Technically true. On the other hand I hear her voice at every turn.)

Q: Why not?

A: I just don’t

(25-year-olds don’t generally go home to their mom every night. Even if my mom were alive, she wouldn’t be waiting for me outside. Or maybe she would. Maybe I wouldn’t even be here.)

Q: What are you gonna do?

A: I have to meet someone to talk about something.

(I have to get tea with an 18-year-old whose father, a man I’ve known my whole life and who cared for my mother as she died, is dying. I want desperately to give him guidance, but what can I give him? I want to call him a friend, but I haven’t spoke to him in any meaningful way since he was 10 and I was 17. I’ll go there under the premise of decorating the vessel his father will be cremated in, really just wanting to talk and give him a hug.

Q: Oh. Okay let’s finish.

today, one of the army

busy, wiping away dust, organizing spices

preparing for death

saying it directly to cope

I am finally learning

things will never calm down

the chaos will continue until it doesn’t

death dates be damned

I will never have time to read all of my books

to keep the bathtub sparkling

to learn to change a tire

no amount of control

can remove the heaviness

at least the sun is out

at least we are an army

(hectic, nervous, reaching)

at least there have been these years

at least we’ve been here

resolve

Here we go again

Writing the old white dog into poems

Cold sunlight ricocheting off the wall

Doing our best to keep our heads clear, our voices kind

January first, and I haven’t left the house, haven’t left my nightgown even

Champagne cocktails will do that to you

Yesterday I crashed a moped into a parked Saab, just seconds after accelerating

It was not as much like riding a bike as I assumed

Only a few small scrapes to all parties, but I was left with a sense of impending dread

Fearing this was a sign of the coming year

So I’ve lazed about, that little voice insisting:

-- “Pick up your feet god dammit!

Commit and get moving!”