Light in Light
Deborah Gerrish
Light in Light
Copyright © 2017 Deborah Gerrish. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1691-4
hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-4095-6
ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-4094-9
Manufactured in the U.S.A. November 27, 2017
for Jim
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
—Theodore Roethke
This Morning
the haze lifted early. In the garden, I planted herbs.
Bluebirds watched. Dew rolled off their feet
like beads of Muscadet.
The woodpecker in search of a mate,
drummed the sycamore tree and I peered
into the flicker’s tree cavity,
the small boulevard of insects. Tiny fly-bugs random
against the squint of the sun—
grubs, beetles, termites, frozen in a syrup-sap.
As I listened, I no longer puzzled
over the playlist of the mockingbird.
I no longer remembered winter’s
frigid-tin temperature.
I no longer desired to write poems in the cemetery—
near my father’s grave.
There was no ache in my bones.
When lifting the planter, I saw the bright
epaulettes of the red winged blackbird.
That Winter
my mother and my father died in February. One that morning
one that evening, four days, one hundred four hours apart. Seasons
later I drive through the old neighborhood past my childhood
friend’s brick house with picket fence, our houses back to back.
Years ago I’d babysit his sister on weekend afternoons. Patiently wait
for him in his modern ’60s kitchen, as he clicked his bronze toy gun
between bites. A slow-moving, prolonged lunch, one bite at a time,
one click then another. Grilled cheese. Bite, click. With bacon, click,
click. Or peanut butter on toast, click, bite, click. Tried to convince
myself I held no grudge about his caterpillar style. His mother
brushed him along like an autumn fly, pushing swigs of Boscoe
milk to wash the meal down quickly. By mid-afternoon—
we’d take our places outdoors behind rough columns of trees,
play tag beneath the sky with its apricot glow, mortality weighing
on the leaf-spare branches. In the wide back yard, heaps
of maple leaves, stiff azalea and hundreds of acorns. Abandoned
Adirondack chairs, air enriched with pungent smoldering
leaves & wood burning fireplaces. Darting between the willows,
Eric shrieked, You Jane me Tarzan, and I chanted, Eeeee-Ah-Key.
Giggles & that unforgettable toothy grin from his young sister,
as she chased us in concentric circles between neighbor’s yards,
the October air turning crisp like white transparent apples,
the slanted sky against the day’s final hour. If only I could
speak to the trees and the shadows of actors.
If only my childhood contained me like the heavenly bodies
protected by stars. I wish I could say I didn’t see nightfall
coming or that I wasn’t so lost in a retinue of dreams.
I wish I could say I’m not shocked. But I stuff my pillows
with lavender flowers so I can sleep through winter.
The Return
The house
on Jefferson Avenue—
1939 mortar, brick, stone
pearly wood shutters
my parents’ bedroom window—
crystal leaded glass,
childhood’s diamonds.
The door
once sturdy—
painted white
three cape cod windows
brass numbers—
faded and splintered
My kindred
their days dust—
spent
like dried sunflowers.
I roam through rooms,
