Dandelion days.

Some refuse to be coaxed
into a community garden
as the newly- tempered arugula
has learned to take its proper place on the plate
and chamomile
waits for evening to do its trick.
Some take way too much space.

We didn't see their habits in early Spring
their youthful blush of morning
was just a Marguerite
dreaming up lover's claims.

By Summer, their underground
suckers saw no limits, seeds
spreading like wildfire across space
choking all other life in their way.

Autumn's promise for apples and grapes
can never be fulfilled
as long as the dandelion runs a- muck
among the civilized species of the community garden.

That old feeling.

We shouldn't have come down this far
to this moldy basement
to find that old frame that would
grace that old bureau of
responsibilities we moved around from house to house, those
compartments of order and satisfaction we attempted to maintain
all of our lives.

Yesterdays mean more than today, we note,
looking at how young we were in those pictures; how strong and resolute we
sounded in those letters. We had a great life! Those were great days, in that red Camaro
you in that navy suit and I in that Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat, on our way to Churchill for brunch.


How much of our stuff will survive after we're gone?

How much of our parents' stuff survived the mold in their  basement?

Sometimes, I try to be invisible.

Sitting in the parking lot
at Walmart, babysitting my youngest brothers, I want to
be invisible to my friends
and their mothers who hurry past me.
Mom and my little sisters are
rushing through the aisles picking
up food for the week.


When they return, Mom  drops a bag of cheetos
on our lap, telling us to share without fussing
before stashing the groceries in the trunk.

I see people eyeing our basket
as they pass us
thinking how come
we have to support those
extra mouths with our taxes
and food stamps; thinking
it's our fault
we can't afford stuff.

I pretend I'm in church- head down so
nobody sees me in the ugly car we're in-
waiting for the service to end
the food  put away
Mom in the front seat proud
she managed seven bags this week
with her food stamps.

Did you buy ice-cream, I ask.
Not this time, she says, I promised Dad I'd pick him up some beer on the way home.

Who's afraid of dying?

Between this conscious moment and all  the others there are
huge gaps, far off galaxies whose
details, like the smell of morning coffee
disappear in the ether of the unknown
a mythology so big and complicated
it has become a major industry
like gambling and insurance.


Like water flowing
through a calm river, we live each day
going through our rituals
rowing our canoe in and out of bays and inlets
currents and disturbances.
At the end of the day,  we moor on dry land, in a warm, well-
lit place to enjoy food and company, while the
river itself laps at the front stoop
day in and day out
until one night it pushes through
rushing
with force and destruction.

Who has not built a fortress against
such watery graves? The mind wants
to believe in paradise, a villa behind palm trees
where a calm ocean breeze promises only peace at the end
of the day.
Yes, the preacher immunizes with comforting phrases
as if nothing in this world is better than
the warm well-lit place of paradise awaiting for us
where we'll be forever young, forever loved
forever healthy and ambulatory.
Don't worry about death, he says,
it will be better than your present life.

Yes. And Yes. Where do we sign up for free land in the Everglades?

Hairballs

Like breathing
the ocean swells and falls
swirls and shifts
harnessing the wind and
depositing debris
as we feed on its bounty
and praise its beauty
collecting dreams of journey
with each shell and driftwood we bring home.

We think with our stomach as
much as our brain
all parts
needing all other parts
involuntarily
animated
so we can harvest sunlight
and rest in the deep
of self obsession.



We do manage to investigate hairballs.

Notes to self.

The universe is many, and one person can't ever know all of it.
Galaxies, meteors, violence and birth are all around
visibly and invisibly present.
For a long minute, only love was visible.

The inferno can open up any second and swallow us
while we're on a walk or in the middle of dinner
discussing how paradise comes and goes as we sip our pinot
on the terrace overlooking the vineyards
a glimpse of rainbow on the west side.

What doesn't kill us will plant fear in our hearts we conclude
as we  taste joy in the foam of our morning cappuccino.

Labels
Schedules
Locations
Options
are codes on the right side of our page, translated by a hand  pecking the plastic,  hoping to leave an indelible mark before the electric generator wipes out all thought.

The very thought of you...

You were about ten  and we were traveling
through Italy
just the way
we had planned
so many times
and I, speaking Italian
to you who knew so
few words
explaining my history
this and that
and my house
destroyed
how grandma died
right there in the
earthquake after you were born
how grandpa's grapes influenced
what wines I preferred.

And then,
suddenly,
you
all grown
And all gone.Over a year gone.

I woke up
in the dark
all feverish
all frightened.

I'm ready
to have an annual day
to remember our son
I declared-the hour still
dark and catless-
on the anniversary of his death
here at the lake,
with all his friends
this July.

My husband
heard my restlessness and
toward me turned
to hear my fevered call to action.

He bottled the thought
in his own container
as his habits dictated
and began by speaking of
of a day
where your friends
could do
what all of them
did when you were together
go camping
canoeing
fishing...
wherever you usually went.

You mean return to their camping grounds in Catalina?
Yes, he said.

Because that's not my intent at all.
I want
My son
Here
camping and fishing
Here, with us, on this lake.

A wave of grief drowned the rest of the exchange.