A Death at Home

I counted only nine geese

Tuesday and knew that

because they always hang together

one was dead.

I found her all crooked in the new grass

down by the shed.

She looked smaller than she had been

when she strode with them.

At night when they honk now

(I am afraid they are killing another

one

of themselves),

I get my robe on

and shout out the door

"Shut-up,"

and go back to dreams

that my mama who has cancer

(a cancer that crawls like billions of box-elder bugs,

crawls in a fiery fist

over Battenberg lace doilies)

begs me to cure her

and pecks me to death

when I can't.

Beach Concerto

Mommy said to stop throwing sand, Kevin,

or I'll make you take a time out,

Her dark glasses glint meanly. Short streaked hair. Fortyish.

She lays prone,

blond Cheops,

knees locked together, legs forming a sturdy pyramid,

with indented feet as base,

very geometrically sound.

Spreads paba-free sunscreen

and watches obliquely

as Kevin subtly taunts a wobbly one-year-old.

From her massive towel she conducts an orchestra

of attitudes,

patronizing Wobbly,

You're a good little boy. Now, c'mon Kevin, share

with the good little boy.

Swivelling to her husband,

a gray man behind the Detroit Free Press

at the picnic table, an unlikely confidant,

she whispers, pianissimo,

One step closer, kid, and Kevin'll eat you alive.

Crisp movement forward to Wobbly's mom,

Sharing is so hard for them at this age.

Wobbly's mom smiles, an intimidated but appreciative public.

Intermission.

My son hands me an ancient stone,

a fossil from the shore with a tiny shell shape

encrusted deep into it,

vacant remains, delicate visual memory,

witness to millennia of beach concerts,

intact.

Ich ye Yits

Times I would stare at her

standing all pearly in the summer light

with zillions of dust specks falling like stars all around her,

so everything.

I'd wonder

whether she had kidnapped me,

or if I were really adopted,

especially when I'd listen to her laugh on the phone,

hearing she had a whole 'nother world in her,

shared with someone else,

invisible.

I hid in my bedroom closet once,

behind a long pink plastic garment bag,

hoping she'd notice me gone.

I even opened the window, pulled out the screen,

scattered clothes about

just to prove I had run away

forever.

The breeze caught the white billowing curtain, like an angel

escaping.

I think I yelled I'm leaving, I hate you.

Then hours or minutes, maybe just seconds, passed

vainly.

My mama told me that she used to shout something like

"Ich ye yits"

( that's how the words in that strange language still sound to me)

in the kitchen of her house on Vleet Street,

hoping her mother would stop sewing long enough

to hear her,

come to her and close her in infinite arms saying

no, don't leave me,

ever,

but her brothers would laugh and she'd repeat it louder

until she felt foolish and stopped.

Since my mama died,

(an August dawn, alone together, I held the last breath she released,

taking her sweet air deep down into me

for as long as I shall live),

there's been a small black and white picture in my head

of a little girl moving out the door.

She looks back

to see if anyone sees her.

Only I do but I can't say I know

which one of us she is.

Mother Ache

Francisco's toes, like a row of smooth sun-bleached pebbles

beneath the covers, toast my ankles,

my young son who talks to his rooster and his

dog, Homer, from his sleep

"good girl, good girl"

and "here, roostie,"

boy whom wild birds trust.

[It's true. Once I saw a morning dove fly to his hand

and be still.] Mother ache.

What makes me speak to strangers,

take the bitter gifts I receive so readily,

like stolen baked goods laced with who-knows-what ?

I smile, say thank you shyly and even eat a bit.

My meek heart refuses to be rude.

He turns on his side, his gleaming red mass of hair fired

with cow-lick independence, tamed by day

beneath a Red Sox cap, an official one, I think,

the kind that's cloth all the way around,

not adjustable.

He stirs and sleeps on.

How often I have run from my mother love,

like she from me, trying to keep it casual,

private,

like a teenager with her door locked. Leave me alone.

Unsorted mounds of emotional laundry.

Stray urge to just drive away

by myself down some two-bit road, away, away,

all ways leading to the Rome of my dysfunction.

Mother guilt.

He wakes and tells me his dream

about a racist war between blacks and whites.

He's a white but roots for the blacks to be equal.

The blacks tumble over his first-grade teacher, Miss Mintun,

and his best friend, Joe.

They tumble

over a tall, white lady and her husband who screams.

She doesn't know what's going on and just stands there

and gets trampled. Mother fear.

My thirteenth summer [like this, his] drawn to scandal

like to the suck of close, fast-moving trains,

I sent her clippings about Marilyn Monroe

and Christine Keeler

to American Express, Athens,

the loss of her to the love zombies so grievous

and Dad, left to me like a bag of recyclables

that still smell sour of the spent contents.

She came home with a French blond wig.

Mother shame. Mother blame. Mother rage.

Francisco, now up and reading his baseball magazine,

struggles with the inscrutable variables of card values,

frets about micro-defects

and the unending imaginable assaults

upon the quality of mint condition.

Mom, can you scratch my back real gentle?

I touch his soft, freckled wings and pray

Great mother, be with me.

Great mother, teach me love.

Night Mere

Nights I wake startled from sleep

by vile imaginings

of becoming who I am not,

transformed into the likes of desperate front-page monsters

who throw babies out of windows.

Others' stories,

stealthy thought-brigands,

assault me, making me the culprit.

Fears unravel like ragtaggle cloth

spun from within.

I fret about old things,

uncertain fact or fiction,

and remember

blunders, defects, faults.

Blame I blanket like pox

upon my fragile, middle-aged motherhood.

Now I ask to sleep and dream

of a place to grow well,

somewhere within walking distance.

Ahead I see my two boys,

younger here, welcoming me,

and I sing to them

of my boundless love

and gratitude.

Petty Volleyball

I walk down to the beach to make sure no little kids

are screwing around with my boat.

A lady plays ball with her two-year-old.

Discomforting staying power.

Kid says hi.

I say hi.

Kid says hi.

I say hi.

Boat OK.

Walk back. Kid says bye.

I say bye.

Kid says bye,

I laugh, now recognizing the familiar dynamics, reactive volleys

in the tit-for-tat mechanics of our relationship, yours and mine,

but, in this case,

benign and

clear.

Amazing what you can do

with a limited vocabulary.

Rude Awakening

He crept in by night,

hatted,

under a long black hood.

He wouldn't let my mama listen to my prayers, said I was too old, and then

he stole our breasts away, mama's and mine,

and, as he ran,

the milk they held spilled this way and that,

willy-nilly,

like fireman's wild hoses out of control

or little boys pissing carelessly

over holy stones.

	A Death at Home I counted only nine geese Tuesday and knew that because they always hang together one was dead. I found her all crooked in the new grass down by the shed. She looked smaller than she had been when she strode with them. At night when they honk now (I am afraid they are killing another one of themselves), I get my robe on and shout out the door "Shut-up," and go back to dreams that my mama who has cancer (a cancer that crawls like billions of box-elder bugs, crawls in a fiery fist over Battenberg lace doilies) begs me to cure her and pecks me to death when I can't. Beach Concerto Mommy said to stop throwing sand, Kevin, or I'll make you take a time out, Her dark glasses glint meanly. Short streaked hair. Fortyish. She lays prone, blond Cheops, knees locked together, legs forming a sturdy pyramid, with indented feet as base, very geometrically sound. Spreads paba-free sunscreen and watches obliquely as Kevin subtly taunts a wobbly one-year-old. From her massive towel she conducts an orchestra of attitudes, patronizing Wobbly, You're a good little boy. Now, c'mon Kevin, share with the good little boy. Swivelling to her husband, a gray man behind the Detroit Free Press at the picnic table, an unlikely confidant, she whispers, pianissimo, One step closer, kid, and Kevin'll eat you alive. Crisp movement forward to Wobbly's mom, Sharing is so hard for them at this age. Wobbly's mom smiles, an intimidated but appreciative public. Intermission. My son hands me an ancient stone, a fossil from the shore with a tiny shell shape encrusted deep into it, vacant remains, delicate visual memory, witness to millennia of beach concerts, intact. Ich ye Yits Times I would stare at her standing all pearly in the summer light with zillions of dust specks falling like stars all around her, so everything. I'd wonder whether she had kidnapped me, or if I were really adopted, especially when I'd listen to her laugh on the phone, hearing she had a whole 'nother world in her, shared with someone else, invisible. I hid in my bedroom closet once, behind a long pink plastic garment bag, hoping she'd notice me gone. I even opened the window, pulled out the screen, scattered clothes about just to prove I had run away forever. The breeze caught the white billowing curtain, like an angel escaping. I think I yelled I'm leaving, I hate you. Then hours or minutes, maybe just seconds, passed vainly. My mama told me that she used to shout something like "Ich ye yits" ( that's how the words in that strange language still sound to me) in the kitchen of her house on Vleet Street, hoping her mother would stop sewing long enough to hear her, come to her and close her in infinite arms saying no, don't leave me, ever, but her brothers would laugh and she'd repeat it louder until she felt foolish and stopped. Since my mama died, (an August dawn, alone together, I held the last breath she released, taking her sweet air deep down into me for as long as I shall live), there's been a small black and white picture in my head of a little girl moving out the door. She looks back to see if anyone sees her. Only I do but I can't say I know which one of us she is. Mother Ache Francisco's toes, like a row of smooth sun-bleached pebbles beneath the covers, toast my ankles, my young son who talks to his rooster and his dog, Homer, from his sleep "good girl, good girl" and "here, roostie," boy whom wild birds trust. [It's true. Once I saw a morning dove fly to his hand and be still.] Mother ache. What makes me speak to strangers, take the bitter gifts I receive so readily, like stolen baked goods laced with who-knows-what ? I smile, say thank you shyly and even eat a bit. My meek heart refuses to be rude. He turns on his side, his gleaming red mass of hair fired with cow-lick independence, tamed by day beneath a Red Sox cap, an official one, I think, the kind that's cloth all the way around, not adjustable. He stirs and sleeps on. How often I have run from my mother love, like she from me, trying to keep it casual, private, like a teenager with her door locked. Leave me alone. Unsorted mounds of emotional laundry. Stray urge to just drive away by myself down some two-bit road, away, away, all ways leading to the Rome of my dysfunction. Mother guilt. He wakes and tells me his dream about a racist war between blacks and whites. He's a white but roots for the blacks to be equal. The blacks tumble over his first-grade teacher, Miss Mintun, and his best friend, Joe. They tumble over a tall, white lady and her husband who screams. She doesn't know what's going on and just stands there and gets trampled. Mother fear. My thirteenth summer [like this, his] drawn to scandal like to the suck of close, fast-moving trains, I sent her clippings about Marilyn Monroe and Christine Keeler to American Express, Athens, the loss of her to the love zombies so grievous and Dad, left to me like a bag of recyclables that still smell sour of the spent contents. She came home with a French blond wig. Mother shame. Mother blame. Mother rage. Francisco, now up and reading his baseball magazine, struggles with the inscrutable variables of card values, frets about micro-defects and the unending imaginable assaults upon the quality of mint condition. Mom, can you scratch my back real gentle? I touch his soft, freckled wings and pray Great mother, be with me. Great mother, teach me love. Night Mere Nights I wake startled from sleep by vile imaginings of becoming who I am not, transformed into the likes of desperate front-page monsters who throw babies out of windows. Others' stories, stealthy thought-brigands, assault me, making me the culprit. Fears unravel like ragtaggle cloth spun from within. I fret about old things, uncertain fact or fiction, and remember blunders, defects, faults. Blame I blanket like pox upon my fragile, middle-aged motherhood. Now I ask to sleep and dream of a place to grow well, somewhere within walking distance. Ahead I see my two boys, younger here, welcoming me, and I sing to them of my boundless love and gratitude. Petty Volleyball I walk down to the beach to make sure no little kids are screwing around with my boat. A lady plays ball with her two-year-old. Discomforting staying power. Kid says hi. I say hi. Kid says hi. I say hi. Boat OK. Walk back. Kid says bye. I say bye. Kid says bye, I laugh, now recognizing the familiar dynamics, reactive volleys in the tit-for-tat mechanics of our relationship, yours and mine, but, in this case, benign and clear. Amazing what you can do with a limited vocabulary. Rude Awakening He crept in by night, hatted, under a long black hood. He wouldn't let my mama listen to my prayers, said I was too old, and then he stole our breasts away, mama's and mine, and, as he ran, the milk they held spilled this way and that, willy-nilly, like fireman's wild hoses out of control or little boys pissing carelessly over holy stones.