After Moving My Son into His First Apartment
Winding the moose-roads from Montreal
to Boston, I’m wondering
if life is a platter or a knot,
and if that knot’s in my shoulders
right now, squinting at the blurry
wet highway, trusting the GPS
and the B52s to deliver me from evil
and Sunday night traffic. My comfort is
snipped into pieces and tossed
like confetti, a kid here, a friend there,
lover in the passenger seat
helping me stay in my lane,
bless him. I want my dear ones
neatly folded into their lives
like origami cranes,
peaceful in themselves
and symbols of peace. But I know
they’re just like me: sad
and hopeful, confused as all get-out. Tonight
I’m getting out of Dodge, dodging
raindrops, wishing my wipers
worked better and my wishes were
horses to ride
like the beggar I am.
Iota
We named the microwave Iota B. Happy
because she sings a little tune instead
of beeping when her work is finished,
and so cheerful every time – often
it’s the best news I get all day,
kid now off to college, just me and the cats
and the microwave and the world
with its many trials and few songs.
How much more can I carry?
Just a tiny bit, Iota says.
Iota says, your food is done.
In the Morning I Read Jack Gilbert
In the morning I read Jack Gilbert,
one poem a day, and the must from the pages
prickles in my throat. My sentences begin
to align themselves. Simple, declarative.
I grow less afraid to bring my body
into the air. I tug the old quilt
across the bed. I part the white curtains
and open the door. I even find a fondness
for the self who left several books open
in the bathroom, abandoned where they lay,
and two flat shoes caressing one another
with the affection of long companionship.
Island
Sometimes a shipwreck is an island.
Sometimes an island is a home.
Sometimes a home is a prison.
Sometimes a prison is a dream.
Sometimes a dream is an omen.
Sometimes an omen is a lie.
Sometimes a lie is the last straw.
Sometimes the last straw is a blessing.
Sometimes a blessing is an affront.
Sometimes an affront is a lesson.
Sometimes a lesson is a journey.
Sometimes a journey is a shipwreck.
Bio: I am the author of the collection Haunts (Cooper Dillon Books) and the chapbooks Two White Beds (Minerva Rising) and What We Planted (Providence Athenaeum). I co-edited the anthology Poem, Revised (Marion Street Press) with Robert Hartwell Fiske, and my work has been published in journals including The Glacier, Ekphrastic Review, Los Angeles Review, and DMQ Review. I earned an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers. I work as a technical writer and live near Boston.
No comments:
Post a Comment