august eleventh, bloomfield road. i should have cried
Worked at the frame shop
Walked the dog
Watched tv
Perused wikipedia
Played volleyball
Planted sulfur cosmos
Stood around in the sun
Stopped on the road
Saw a dead fox.
Black gums oozed
Stained teeth.
Fur matted,
Insides out
Drying to the asphalt.
Everything too tight
And too glossy.
I tucked my chin into my shirt
Still, something pulled me close
To his small body
Whose voice had been keening
the night before,
Like a call from a cat or a bird
Not this cold form.
I didn’t know we had red foxes here.
I didn’t want to leave him.
I felt, my ribs closing in
And slow on my feet
And i kept walking
Because
what else can you do
Dead ants
I recently found out
Not everyone can smell
dead ants?
So unknown this connection
Through sharp mourning
Of the nose.
I opened a compost bin last night and
bright glittering black bitter
A wave of memory wafted up
from decay
I remember my grandfather –
Passed now,
But then
We used to play spider
Five fingers each, skittering
At the kitchen table with its ever changing,
Block printed, cotton cover.
Colors bright and vivid,
I think mostly flowers and birds
Where we used to spill syrup,
Like drops of dew.
The floor, I know, was golden marmoleum
Well,
it still is.
I guess, it just feels like a different kitchen
That one
With ants,
And Robert.
[this] girl’s best friend: Finnegan
A dog, who
When you cry one evening
Thinking
Of three years,
And of a sister who can't bear to give you a hug before she leaves for Ireland,
Of how you begged
And offered, it's not that hard
(Which you’re sure
was meant for two sets of ears)
Comes to sit by you
And touches you with his paws
And licks your tears away
And leans against you,
Until he lays down with his head in your lap
Until you walk him to his bed
And give him a kiss, goodnight
Massachusetts means rain
I step out
and look at my lovely maple.
Her leaves are dark – not quite glossy
though that's where my mind goes –
for the health of them,
the proliferation of green
is astounding.
~
From California I hear reports of one hundred and two.
At home where trees are crackling, I think of the redwoods,
They have variable leaves:
Needles for water
Needles for sun
Flat leaves on low branches catch light.
Tight spikes beyond fog hold moisture.
Three hundred and sixty four feet
Roots to sky
I got the redwoods inked on my arm
So I could keep them close.
I didn’t want to miss a moment beneath their reign,
But even the redwoods have needles for water
Some species spend their entire lives within those canopies –
and I wonder what that would be like
As I listen to a day of rain.
Three thousand miles away, I must too.
~
So I stand on my porch, with this great maple.
Absorbing the way the pale sun hits her star studded stems –
The way the damp air coats my throat
and I dream of California in a storm.
