day 25 p.a.d.

Fever

Little snowflakes, little chalky
wafers, you flutter outside my

window. I stick out my tongue but
still cannot taste your

chill. There is a cold I cannot
catch! If you could nip, or bite--

close your arctic fingers around
my throat. Not this, not

this falling down without
frostbite, without numb.

I'm weary of watching
you wobble, stark as

bone, lifeless as the
shavings of a fingernail.

day 23 p.a.d.

Supper

Supper is full of noise. The
sharp staccato of celery being
chopped. Forks and knives
rattle against each other like
bells with broken clappers.
Grandpa grunts as he tries to
get out of his chair.

In the middle of
everything slouches
a whistling boy. Sneaker
toes tap linoleum. Sigh. A
pencil clucks and whispers across
the paper. Sigh. Pencil
becomes drum stick until
the song ends. Sigh.

Platters stomp and
tromp on the table. Glasses
fill with water. Chairs
pull out. A rushed
prayer. The rip of
crusty bread. Everyone
speaks at once.

poem-a-day challenge -- day twenty-two

Flash Flood

The first time it rained, I was
a wreck. I remembered
stories my new husband had
mentioned, stories of
basements slowly filling with
water, animals floating by
vacant family room
windows, taking a
rowboat to work.

I imagined my baby being
whisked away in his
bassinet down Bay Avenue.
I lifted him carefully into
my arms, with great
ceremony, like I might
never do it again.

I ran upstairs and tried to
pack a bag, a plastic grocery
bag, with necessities. What
was necessary? I'd never lived in
a city that flooded. Suddenly,
I was homesick.

The rain in this new place, this
strange city, the rain here is
moody and scornful. It assaults
frisbee throwers in the park, crushes
flowers and has been know to
steal umbrellas right out of tightly
clutched hands. The rain here takes a
joy ride and never looks back.

p.a.d. --day twenty-one

Budd Bay

She leans over the landing and drops
pebbles into Budd Bay, the smooth
rocks work their way down her fingers and
out of her hands into the murky water.

The afternoon sun tints everything
an unnatural buff color, like
polaroids from the 1970s.

Her hair slips between the slats of
the boardwalk. Tucked behind a
pierced ear. Strands brush her
forearm. Protein filaments.

She drops another pebble. Plop. The
surface of the water explodes.

On a bench further down the
wharf an old man clips shades onto
his eye glasses. A woman with
curly hair sits down next to him and puts a
blanket across his knees. She shouts at
him to straighten his collar.

Surface tension. Ripples. Water lit by
late summer sunlight. Quickly it goes.
It cannot hold its shape.

Day Twenty (p.a.d.)

And Then It Unfolds

There is a rush of
wind, sheet music scatters like
dandelion snow, you lose your
balance. Off kilter.

You watch yourself
disentangle. They say
you grew the beard to appear
more distinguished. Older.
Wiser.

Just seconds ago your
fingers were skillful and
sure. Already you are
trying to recall how

smooth the keys felt under
your fingertips. The slight
resistance. The delicate
sound of pianissimo. The
exact moment

when you floated away from
the sanctuary of the concert hall and
unraveled knee-deep in
sea grass.

p.a.d. -- day nineteen

Attachment

For years I've been looking for somewhere to go.
New York. New Mexico. Old El Paso. I have even
planned things out once or twice. Called the
numbers and received the brochures. Checked on
apartments and duplexes. Looked up crime rates.
And then, in my dreams, there I am searching for
a pine tree to sit under, a warm cup of coffee, the
bellow of the sea.

p.a.d. day eighteen

Forgetting

The act of forgetting is a slow one.
So much sneaks back in.

The fallen feather of a
belted kingfisher. The smell of
pepperoni pizza. The manner in which
a girl in the street quickly says hello and
then tucks her chin into her
chest.

Remnants of debris.

I stumble on their tangled bits.

Forgetting to remember to
forget is a fascinating,
formidable thing. Each
memory opening always
into another.