Light Snow

Neighbors 

one-by-lonesome-one 

venture out 

smash driveway ice  

wielding pick, shovel, broom, boot

this noise often confused with soft, romantic snow 

swoof, crunch, muffle 

dark night under foot 

these sounds

herald winter’s early phase  

December’s pretty nod,

a trickster that precedes loathing

eventual heartsickness  

yet the ice-bashers carry on 

until the melt

when the sky pales

shades of hope and gray 

Writing Project/process

 

Turkey Run

Per usual, she — decisive and self-assured, loosely finesses her grocery list. She suggests let’s order a fresh turkey from Benson farm; it’ll be a nice drive south.  But she knows they’ll never do it because he will say why waste the gas. And he will insist on a whole turkey because … dark meat. He always promises they’ll do breast only. It’s a job, keeping this dream alive, year after year. 

Walking the West Village. 

No agenda exists, except lunch. First, they find a small park where she talks to the pigeons and observes a man seated across from them who holds tightly onto his black Scotty because the pigeons over-excite the dog. The man looks familiar; she thinks he might be a retired character actor. A woman on the next bench smokes a cigarette, noticed initially by its murderous scent. 

Her husband sits with sun behind his shoulders, camera-alert because street photography is his art.  Near noon, discussion ensues regarding cafe choices. She has done her research, points out the one on Bleeker. Or the Italian meat place. Decisions can be difficult. 

Finally seated at a corner table in Toscano, located on the corner of Perry Street, and despite the menu having been intensely examined, a poor food choice has been made by her husband. Anchovies must be eaten fresh; everyone knows that. Unhappily, he has not much option but to choose and eat sautéed spinach following a vibrant exchange of opinion with the waitperson about the condition of said anchovies (not fresh/too salty.) She raves over her arugula salad, remarks “delizioso!” and leaves a generous tip. She rises from her chair and walks away, unaware that her scratchy, but beautiful, Irish wool scarf, remains strewn across the spare chair at the cafe. Further down the block, she discovers the scarf is no longer wrapped about her neck, but does not lament her absent-mindedness, (perhaps to downplay any inferred forgetfulness) and instead, hopes a nice someone will love the scarf and adopt it as their own. Because there’s no going back to a restaurant where you had to displease the wait staff. 

Filled Up With Moon

Fearsome sun grazes 

the nose

revelation of freckles 

warmed belly 

heat 

goose bumps

a seashore day

after the cotton blanket is shaken, folded and taken away 

music from a side table 

french fries, fat and full

taste of perfection

promise 

rickety walk-up

moonlit tide 

damp-air flights

into a still night

Seek

Its existence 

lives within her humanity

the traveler searches out the presence 

purity

stillness

advances on a moving horizon 

holy destination 

still wanting, grasping

this heart so unsustainable 

Apple

We skip breakfast and lunch 

don’t be concerned 

We stretch, leap, fly higher than ever imagined 

run in place

know our place

inspired, determined

by a strip of scotch tape 

and a Seventeen magazine

super model Cheryl pasted on the headboard

We will look like her in no time

there’s no telling how the visual brain will respond

nowhere to go but up …

but I’m 5 feet

and apparently, Cheryl is 5’10”.

Why didn’t anyone tell me? 

I queue up at the gym

face the scale 

the consensus - 

I weigh next to nothing

I hear an exhalation of defeat

the woman behind me

a drool of jealousy at the corner of her mouth

while the gym attendant cheers me on

exclaims good good

only five more pounds. 

Voice of the Falls

(Published in Zig Zag Lit Mag, Issue 12, 3/20/22)

I swing my feet from the wooden bridge

and want to fling a clog off into the rushing below

but what would I do with only one shoe?

I rethink my desire

 

Holy Years

You at age 30, I rely on my imagination

because I did not know you then

but there’s an old family photo

where you’re on a boat

at sea in summer

handsome enough, carefree

 

I hold the photo

imagine standing before you

smile to myself because I am certain 

you would have been knocked out 

by my girl-next-door looks 

and an audacity 

to which you were unaccustomed

 

these days I wait 

for your next physical complaint

or medical test result

or worse, an emergency trip to the hospital – 

this is not a complaint

 

another photo to which I return 

is one where I’ve cut away the other faces

I want to see your face only 

your mother’s eyes, crooked and mysterious

a smile that came from somewhere, maybe me 

I feel the love burden rise up 

too many days of senseless unkindnesses

fade as I look at this photo

my tears absolve us both

though our idiosyncrasies

have surely kept us on track all these years 

when there seemed no other path

by which to stake our claim 

in the couplehood hall of fame

a marriage so free-falling and blessedly free form 

that it never quite hits the ground

 

the next snapshot

You Me

a dinner party

a bonfire

everyone thinks “what a great couple”

meant to be 

we humans idolize the concept of true love

it impresses

is coveted 

movie stars on parade

all the right moves, words, angles

but everyone has it so wrong

 

love is about the life of years which reside

in the hallowed in-between, 

born of a charmed moment early on

then, a choice made

not too much more

Caramelization

My mother’s vintage iron pan, 

heavy, hot, ready

she fried up love

caramelization of the soul 

from pot roast Sunday to pizza Friday

 

Daddy grinned like a kid

savoring simple bounty

pure intention

filled-up empty spaces

 

Soft white bread, gold potatoes, 

brown saucy gravy

onions permeate the senses

slippery, aromatic

strong flavors that bond a family

*****

Now I have my own black iron pan

half my weight required just to heave it onto the stove 

black soil beneath my fingernails

sauté broccoli, 

parboil summer’s hybrids and heirlooms

eat now, store more for winter 

Order gourmet crab 

douse with herb-infused oil

tend with fervor

stare into space

until dinner sizzles done

Getting Back to the Garden

Afterthoughts 

I am such a social being, I have never not liked people. This past year drove home the aching absence of friends, my constants. The crust of icy heartbreak that covered my front yard this past January forced me out into the cold.  No one met me there.

Family members who tend to worry less, leave space for me to worry more, a full time job I’ve taken on in this life. 

The small stuff. Food. Wine. Netflix. Being cooped up with a spouse who can get on my nerves on a good day in a good year. Bet he feels the same about me. Is it over yet? Please say yes.

Little kids come to see me. We never stopped hugging. We merely do it less often than we used to. As if this made any difference to a virus. One stray germ, and one of us could still wind up in sick bay. I keep our hugging- secret because many of my peers don’t touch their grandchildren these days. 

I am weirdly opinionated about my politics because my heart lives with the group that prefers to help others. So I take my chances with love and hugs. Go ahead and judge. 

A liberal in the true definition of the word means I stop and listen to another’s point of view. I put virus conversation aside. As angry and concerned as the day makes me feel, we don’t discuss January 6. We don’t talk about Nancy or Mitch. Instead, we talk about our cats. We share music. We bake bread. We hug. We get back to love, where it all began. 

Doll

 Published in Zig Zag Lit Mag, issue 10

I recall the December

Barbie arrived in our home, 

a new baby

me, awestruck, reached out to touch the smallness

trace her delicate features with my fingertips

tiny feet

a marvel I adored

scent, benign and sweet 

silent—such a good girl

dressed in black and white at the start so as not to garner too much attention

Years after, she traded up for the pink crinoline prom dress and backless heels

*~**~*

A never-ending smile morphed into perpetual smirk

her eyes, dead pool

I am seven;

I become thirteen

my adoration melts like plastic shoes held over a flame

“You cannot compare your

dishpan hair to my blonde ponytail.

I am your statuesque mini

you will understand the unachievable— this tiny waist

though you will try like hell to mold, flatten, chisel

hate yourself

eat an apple a day

feed on nothingness, drink the air

still, you will never be me

I am the love of antiquarians

vintage, chic, collectible

ruination of your child/woman body.”

I remember daddy saying,

“If only we had kept her in her case,

she would have been worth so much more.”

Family of Guns

Swore to god

I’d never own a gun

I’m afraid of them. 

Pacifist

peace signs adorn my home

to own a gun means more violence

promotes more gunnage. 

My friend’s daughter

lives in D.C.

the daughter, super liberal

champion of the weary

out on the streets, 

she knows 

cops can help,

and sometimes they hurt

“It’s coming,” she says

the day when everyone

will need a gun

want a gun 

own a gun

Not me…

until he stood in our kitchen

“Remember that conversation about guns?”

He lifted it from the locked-down case

ultra sleek

almost pretty, dark charcoal-tint  

cold blue steel 

and me, such a sucker for color 

Here, hold it. 

you’ll learn

Fits comfortably 

wrapped in soft, gentle fingers

grip firm

don’t point

Lady Elaine Farewell

“I’m half sick of shadows,” she said.  (Arthurian legend so lush)

Cloaked in desire

atop a tower of stone 

she wants what

she cannot know 

Invisible carriage attends

her fate as droplets of golden 

tears flow

Longing the one who does 

not exist

exquisite pain shall prevail

hiding her grief beneath

Lancelot’s cape 

breath sighs into mist

as she sails 

Spring Thaw

let it all melt

may it not snow again for 1000 days

I take it all back

what I said last November about cleansings and blessings 

I lied

believe me I’m as surprised as you

I should be banished from these mountains for uttering such blasphemy 

though this current winter has had its moments, I’ll admit.

small children ski their first slope

buses filled with hopeful skiers 

an ‘I’m-so-lucky three-day weekend,’

depart with breathy memory of air and evergreens

I bet you thought even the booze tasted better.

re-entry to your suburbs and cities will be a total drag 

though you’re welcome to return.

but me? 

I’m done

these past virusy months I watched snows fall from a tedious gray 

the things I thought I loved?

jotul warmth

reading 

petting a cat

holing up. 

cooking stew. 

baking cookies

I never want to taste a winter stew again, I see no reason for parsnips 

I will leave the baking to other women

and practice being a woman in my own way. 

honesty

a sigh of relief

sun shadows trail across my hands

eyes adapt to February brightness

Vermont - I abide 

but I haven’t changed my mind

may it all melt

Everyday Hurts: A 2020 Litany

Isolation I

My heart hurts

I cannot see my precious innocents

who are only four and seven

some days I think they will forget me 

as if I never existed

My grown children are bitter and cynical

this, too, hurts my heart

because I brought them into this hard world

I can never make it up to them

I have been hard myself

though inside I feel as soft as an eight-year-old

 

I lost my darling cat the other day

I held my face against his

beautiful coat while the vet

administered the sleep drug 

as I hugged my sweet friend until his life was done

Now I await a new and special drug

my partner needs it even more;

the partner with whom I bicker

you might think we participate in an Olympic competition

I resent him for not one sound reason

yet my heart hurts for hundreds of reasons

sometimes all it takes is a song

and I cry

Maybe my heart is too small and that’s why life seems so painful

I need a bigger heart

Because people have been so mean to each other,

someone has to hold the grief close and not let loose the

guns and tears,

It might as well be me

~~~~~~

Isolation II

emails sign off with

“I’m working remotely

here’s my personal number in case you need me” (please don’t need me) 

wish the reader a standard  “have a good day!”, 

knowing the possibility of “have a happy” went out the window months ago. 

With laptop Windows open 

Spotify new age music on rotation 

I gaze out my own front window toward morning’s eastern glare;

pigeons flock to a neighbor’s roof peak 

as she shovels yet another scrim of an impossible heartbreak winter from her driveway, 

groomed so that I simultaneously admire and detest her perfection, mostly because I struggle to complete a mere single task, not to mention being paid for a full day’s work (extra credit for assimilated guilt, please)

I remember my former mental vigor, the uncanny speed I displayed in fulfillment of a simple request, and the selfless dedication on which I (used to) pride myself 

“If I Zoom one more time I’m gonna puke” (said as a joke)

...one more time and I’ll have that secret emotional breakdown about which I’ve fantasized as I watch my own tiny face and hag-like neck tucked

within a grid of other tiny faces as we discuss even tinier problems in the face of economic collapse, lives-lost, and heart-aching statistics, all which could have been rendered so avoidable. 

~~~~~

Isolation III

My deepest heartache, though,

resides with the lonely un-rescue-ables 

like my mother.

She lives in what they call a studio apartment

that’s how they get you

*The fancy lobby chandelier

*Nurses on each floor

*24-hour Bingo

way to stave off the doom

There’s a pond outside her window

but the window is high above her wheelchair so she cannot see the sky,

or the trees or pond with ducks that swim there.

More like a prison, her studio is a place

where she cannot even get to the bathroom without a stranger’s help 

Surrounded by the same four walls for 300 days running,

except for the days she went to “hospital” to heal from the virus

she loved the change of scenery, 

but eventually hated the loud TV and missed the ducks that she cannot see from her window 

 

Like a good, conditioned prisoner, she returned,

captive

while my own heart waits

for another song