Tuesday, August 23, 2011
this i know
it is monday. midafternoon. i have to tell you
your green iridescent shadow and your
high-speed flight's vibrating hum shake me
tilt me off balance, catch me off guard
like a sudden jab to the head.
i squint at the trees where you disappeared
winging your way into thick woods
to hide in a quiet corner the world
doesn't know about, can't claim for itself.
a tiny cup of twigs and grass, a place calling you
in like love oh-so-deep—
it's what we long for, isn't it?
i trudge down the driveway to remove mail
from the shiny new box, the old one rusted, smashed dead
by a snowplow—oblivious, hellacious scrapers—mad
snow mountain makers. there are winter days i think
i'll climb those mountains rising up on both sides
of the road, shake my fists, shout down
those monster dozers. shout down a lot of things
lost and out of reach—conversations at the pond,
you mixing cookie batter, you telling me
this is what it was like. in the kitchen i
slice through an avocado, scoop out
the inside, eat it with bits of toast, tomato, lemon
hot salsa burning my tongue. the toast
leaves behind crumbs big enough for a mouse
big enough for my mother to find her way
home through a forest of hummingbirds
back to the day the doctor asked
where do you live? what day is it?
later she tells me i remember everything, you know
and points to her head.
it's all in here.