heart beat hard, my errand halfway done.
With pride I clutched the cellophane-wrapped prize
and backed out through the squeaky, wooden door.
Pebbles flew like sparks behind my Keds.
A Corvair screeched. Its bumper grazed my leg
and stopped. I eyed the driver through the glass.
She shook her head and laid it on the wheel.
Oh, no! Mommy’s cigarettes!
My heartbeat halted; my lungs forgot to breathe.
Palms together, Winstons in between,
I mouthed the words “I’m sorry, sorry, please. . . .”
I shuddered, then I ran. I never told you.
I did my lethal best to win your love.
Wild Traveler
I rip the yellowed newsprint
from your German china bowl
and find mere shards, the fragments
of a once unbroken whole.
I trace a fractured rose
imposed on white and lavender
and see the pattern you chose
is stamped “Wild Traveler.”
Intently searching for
a more revealing clue,
I rummage in a drawer
to find a print of you.
Your eyes and lips and nose
are startlingly my father’s,
your waistline—mine, but those
likenesses are all it offers.
I am your last grandchild,
the one you never knew.
Were you fragile, sharp, and wild?
Am I at all like you?
Behind the Wheel
You say yes, I say no, you say
Stop and I say go, go, go. . .
“Hey, Ma, I heard you singing this old Beatle’s
song and thought I’d pop around and join you.”
Alone with John, Paul, George, and Ringo,
I shiver, pounding the steering wheel.
“Hear those birds? I used that chirping sample
on my CD....blackbird singing in the dead. . .
“You can’t drop in whenever.
You don’t get to choose.”
“Remember when the DJ played
Twist and Shout? We danced at the reception.”
He sat shot gun, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder.
Tears sprinted down my face.
“Ah, Ma. What’s the matter? Nothing is real.
Nothing to get hung about,” he sings.
“‘What’s the matter’ you say? The matter is
I forgot that dance, then you show up.”
“Come on! Teaching you to twist was great.
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song...”
“You fell out of time. You are dead.
Now act dead. Stop showing up.”
He fades a shade or two and checks his phone.
I search his eyes. They blur over.
“Hey, I only meant today.
Not everyday. Not for always.”
His singing dims, “songs of laughter, shades of earth,
. . . call me on across the universe. . .”
“Oh, no. . . ‘I don’t know why you say goodbye
I say hello.’ Hello, hello. . .?”
Forty Julys
It is July 1974:
four friends, a New York beach, and fireflies.
We swear we will be close forever and a day,
mountain roads, deer, and singing leaves,
four friends, a New York beach, fireflies,
transistor radios and talk of boys.
On mountain roads, under emerald leaves,
we chat on about our future lives.
Over the radio’s hum, we talk of boys,
mosquito bites, Bactine, and suntan lotion.
We chat on about our future lives,
college plans, our older selves as wives,
more mosquito bites, Let’s try Calamine.
I hide my fear of summer’s forward motion
and July’s dwindling days, no longer mine.
Gazing at the Adirondack sky,
I sense the sting that life and love might bring
and memorize that Adirondack blue.
(We swore we would be close forever and a day,
but that was years ago—forty Julys—)
Fried Mush and Maple Syrup
You winked and raised your
index finger to your lips.
The lard spit; I jumped.
You
