Gently, now, for we begin in earnest.
Gorgeous how things suspend: this peacock
feather, the bar to this cage, the clue that tells us
the cage has been opened. The stump from the gatepost
that once let us in. You can’t help but glimpse
the five minutes hence, the cumulus pilings,
the lean-to of gold. Be ever watchful for the rise
of the phoenix, for the slow descent of his son.
Again yesterday the wind rose & shook the leaves off
The trees throw shadows on the sidewalk
We trudge along avoiding each other
Because sometimes everyone is the enemy even
The guy in the trench coat & black hat lingers over the box
Where they keep the free newspapers taking one out
At the ballpark a baseball took off through
The stratosphere was pierced by a comet with rough edges
And a whole series of constellations you didn’t know
How sharp I was I just got your letter & photograph
Thank you I treasure it as an artifact of the love that never
Was I too effusive or too
Odd how the baseball takes its arc from the moon
If the moon were a motion it would be whoosh
Go the leaves on the sidewalk in a sudden gust
That leaves us all
Breathless is how I felt when I got your letter
And tucked it into the drawer alongside other things
Aren’t so good here since you last
Wrote memory is a funny thing because it makes us
Crazy people in the crosswalk & a marching band on the town hall steps
To get over you are too numerous to mention here
Come the cheerleaders who arrived with the marching band & will leave
On the shoulders of a hundred football players
Are birds of paradise whispering play
Secrets are not fun for the person who doesn’t notice
The sidewalk dappled with leaf-shaped light
A cigarette in winter & it’s a tiny planet in your fingers
Out ghost, our followers have ceased
to show. If the eaves cannot keep you
try the advent calendar. In a past life
I had two wheels and a parachute,
a compass, an oxbow, a slide.
Now the claw foot offers its gold taps.
Once we were just plain five. Once
we believed in a world without birthdays.
Broken moon, broken moon,
I had not noticed the tower. The people agree
the blue is all wrong, but its scaffolding
deserves their praise. You can hardly see
where the hair was let down. Our hero
arrives with a toolbox. What do you mean
his neck won?t hold up? Hand me a screw.
Hand me the wrench for the heart.
—
Gently, now, for we begin in earnest.
Gorgeous how things suspend: this peacock feather,
the bar to this cage, the clue that tells us
the cage has been opened. The stump from the gatepost
that once let us in. You can?t help but glimpse
the five minutes hence, the cumulus pilings,
the lean-to of gold. Be ever watchful for the rise
of the phoenix, for the slow descent of his son.
I'm working from the premise that motherhood is not just all diapers, tantrums, and setting limits. It's interesting. Okay, sometimes. 