“Instructions
for living a life.
Pay Attention. Be Astonished.
tell about it.”
— Mary Oliver
The L
The L train snaked around the city
like a Chinese Dragon —
magic and omniscient.
We were vegans that summer,
propelled by hunger,
falafel shops our beacons.
The parks (whose names we did not know)
welcomed us for picnics in their shade.
I was a toothpick back then,
hair short, curled behind my ears.
You were so tall, towering over me,
your hair short too,
but brown, straight, with bangs.
The city opened her arms to our
sweaty, lanky bodies
and we accepted her embrace with her
bookshops, side-streets,
strangers, live music and cafes.
Those days were
full, meandering,
endless and free —
as best days tend to be.
I’m back in Chicago now.
I live here, actually.
But now the city, once a lover, is a friend.
I sip coffee on the deck with my dog
and listen to the L’s distant rumble.
Her
I’m not sure where she went
is the truth.
Perhaps she’s hiding in the closet
behind the spring dresses she bought
and thought she’d return.
Maybe she’s out back
in the shed,
rearranging the shelves
or sweeping out the cobwebs.
Or she could be in the kitchen frying an egg
or sautéing something, like green beans.
All I know is that she’s not here with me,
and I miss her.
I hope wherever she went
she knows she lit up rooms.
That her laugh was fresh like hope.
That yellow is a color that suited her.
We don’t tell people enough
how much we love them
until it’s too late.
Especially when that person
is us.
Meanwhile
the memories
settle
in the rear of my mind to
rest comfortably, tucked away
in those sacred corners.
these sleeping thoughts
surprise me
in quiet moments when
washing the dishes, walking down the street,
reading a poem, peering out the window of a plane —
sanctity among the mundane.
Home
My arms wrapped around your middle,
my head on your chest.
That feel of you, your smell and touch,
unwinds me when I’m wound.
Driving up Highway One,
windows down, as we navigate between
Leonard Cohen and Paul Simon and Coltrane,
and you’re teaching me things, and
it’s as natural as this
wind whipping through my hair.
Or in the early evening,
when you’re cooking dinner and
the dusk light pours in.
The record croons approvingly,
and I’m pouring us wine and
you’re telling me about your day.
Distance
At first unfamiliar
cold and vacant,
we settle into it,
like our childhood mattress
or an old sweater we cannot give away.
The calls start off frequent,
the small talk learned.
Conversations are easy, surprisingly,
but leave us tired, empty.
Days pass, weeks come and go.
Months fade into months and time,
in its slippery way, creates echoes,
an expanse so vast
we cannot see to the other side.
All we have now is nostalgia.
Where are you now, and where am I?
How did I grow comfortable in this gap:
this space so void of you?
What I must embrace is what I fear: the lack of you
as I sink further
into this place
only mine.
Mary Oliver
Mary left her garden wild,
a labyrinth for the lost,
a haven for the wandering.
Nearby the red fox
howls for the moon—
lustful, impassioned, alive.
The wayward garden is his home,
a place to be true.
Soft animal, let your body love what it loves.
Reflection
The trail is discreet—only a trained eye can find it
Beneath the fall foliage.
Aspen trees stand tall
Like runway models swaying in the cold breeze,
Their limbs wind chimes.
There is a well of poetry here
Just below the surface.
I considered tapping it,
To drink from the source,
But I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
As a child I spent time in deeper canals
Sorting through the muck.
The reflection brought me clarity
And a few good songs.
But there’s softness there in the sodden ground,
So easily bruised.
Lately I’ve preferred the brighter footpath,
Found comfort in the confetti of the trees.
Legacy
There is an eternal place
where the birthing begins.
It decides what is meant to be.
My motherhood is crying out to me
from some primal core
where wisdom lives.
But we are all still children.
I remember the look in their eyes
wide and innocent
peering up at me
searching for something to trust.
I tried to offer them
what truth I could: my heart
hoping they would forgive me my privilege and
accept my love.
Life slowly reveals
the heartbreak we inherit.
Sea
The constant underwater storm.
Kelp waves back and forth like thrashing trees.
Sand swept up, settles, then lifts again.
There is somehow peace in this power.
These currents are strong, swift and invisible.
Stay shallow to avoid the undertow.
We lay on our backs
ceding control,
submerged.
Salt water prime us, and Sea —
teach us to accept
the eternal ebb and flow.
You
You are not an arrow.
You are not just wood shaft, pointed end,
quill at the tip.
You are layers,
dimensions, complexities.
From every angle you are distinct —
Your shape shifts.
I don’t hope to
understand you in one sitting
or even several years.
I doubt I’ll fully know you
in a lifetime.
You’re the sea,
a flower,
a favorite book.
I’ll keep learning you,
forever discovering another
shape, rhythm, shade,
wave, sparkle, truth.
Chill
The checkered quilt
Of the land
Is frosted cerulean and white
The neighbors
Lit the furnace late
Our breath dances before us
We chop the tree
Shoot the arrow
Eat the stew
Thaw our extremities
To stay alive
This cold taps into a place
Our ancestors knew and we forgot
The earth howls
Its eternal song
Hibernation
We awaken on grey days
when the earth’s palette has faded
and clouds mask the sun.
We cook up delightful flavors
of coffee, jazz, books, film, orchids.
It’s a slipper and pajamas all day kind of day,
We soak up the hygge and sip tea.
Later, you are the chef,
I chop the veggies and pour the wine.
Occasionally we dance,
our home a bright haven in this pallid city.
Insatiable
we consume,
consume,
consume.
where do we expect the waste to go?
the earth is too wise
to simply eat our sins.
Details
they say the devil is in the details
and I have found her there—
buried deep in to-dos and bills
and old holiday cards.
you’re in there somewhere, too,
beneath the crumbled sheets and dust.
you’ve tucked your heart away—taxidermy
safe from light and touch, preserved
in long-unopened journals
piled high on the shelf,
in love letters to those who only visit in dreams,
in songs you wrote and never sang.
those words whispered to parallel places,
where you imagine coffee just as hot,
the pastries maybe even sweeter,
the sex a jolt that kicks you back
to summer, to youth, when you were free
to explore, to listen—
still figuring it all out,
then, still busy
painting your dreams
in vivid strokes, writ large,
exposed.