MEMORIES FROM CHILDHOOD

When Mom wanted me to do something
quickly, she would say, “Quick like a bunny!”

One of the reasons Gramps
liked seeing my brother and me was probably because
it was a good excuse to have a root beer float.

When I heard the phrase “first of all,”
I would think of a soccer ball.

Dad letting me as a three-year-old
sit in the middle seat of the pick-up
and shift gears.

When I first heard my grandmother swear,
she said, in as loud a voice as she could muster,
“Oh, son of a bitch!” And I thought,
“She must really be mad.” And I think that’s the
only time I’ve ever heard her talk like that.

When the song sang, “Every time you go away,”
I thought the next line was,
“…you take a piece of meat with you.”

I couldn’t understand
why Granny called us “whistle-britches”,
or why she called pancakes “hotcakes”,
or a grilled-cheese a “toasted-cheese” sandwich.

(21 February 2007)

TRUSTING THE FOG

It is usually best not to have too many ideas,
to have too many starts. The discovery
is usually hard to maintain then. But when I say
(maybe unknowingly) to the night, “I’ll leave it
for tomorrow,” it all gets lost
in the daybreak, or when my eyes close.

The fog tells me, “You are at my mercy.
You should not question or hesitate
when I lift. And when I am there, you should trust me—
trust that I will give you some space
right in front of you
to find your way.”

I will be trusting. I will be patient. I will
be ready. I will be spontaneous. And I will try
to be all these at the same time.

(14 February 2007)

ON A SLANT

There is a long way to go
before I sleep, and I have to plan
for things I don’t know how
to prepare for—
a sudden change of weather,
or taking someone away
from their daily route.
But then maybe not.

The clusters of trees and houses
are on a slant. Soon everything
will pass.

And I don’t usually give up
so easily.

(14 February 2007)

FLAME

A waft of cold air brings back memories
you can’t quite remember. Without any effort,
they flow through you—
a life left behind. But you proceed
with caution—another waft
has the smell of the sea. They soon scatter
to the floor and when you pick them up,
they aren’t really yours anymore.

The lights sparkle red and gold,
but you and this sleeping city
don’t know each other. But the word “friend”
comes to mind often.

What looks commonplace
from this spot on the hill is actually quite foreign
when I look out the window.
Soon I will find my door
to slip out of early in the morning.

(8 February 2007)

SEE ME NO MORE

My skin is white, my skin
is black. I am a good person, I am
not a good person. I am good at fixing things,
always was. I am not handy with tools.
These different identities
tend to blend together. Who I was
to my mother and father
is not who I am to these people
before me. You are suddenly the outsider
looking inside, and you wonder if anyone in there
still knows who you are.

There are some bridges
that just won’t burn, even
if you make little effort—
the last trace of light
on the horizon, the last sip of tea
in a clear glass.

(6 February 2007)