How News Travels

I used to imagine it like birds flying.

Or a crisp white envelope.

Until now I never conceived of it

nestled inside me, moving how I move.

I step out of the house, forgetting 

I am wearing my mother’s robe.  

It is before dawn; nothing stirs.

No jogger or paperboy, not even the birds 

keeping track of things. Am I wearing slippers? 

I must be.  I move at a steady clip

past the quiet houses on their unlit lawns.

I am taller than usual, held up, afraid

of sudden movement, the swing of my arms. 

I walk as if my whole body were filled with eggs,

and my task to deliver them unbroken.

And when I reach my brother’s house, 

there through the window he is making his way

to the front door to open it

to the news of our mother’s death

that I alone have carried in the street

and can finally set down.

Urban Renewal   

That little Spanish-Chinese place on 81st & Amsterdam

where you asked me to marry you

is gone –

its row of glazed ducks in the window.

Where you asked me to marry you,

I don’t remember what we ate;

its row of glazed ducks in the window

our witnesses.

I don’t remember what we ate

the night we first met at Man Ray in Chelsea,

our witness

a mutual friend, in town by chance.

The night we first met at Man Ray,

also gone,

a mutual friend in town, by chance suggested

you pick me up outside the Zig-Zag Bar & Grill,

also gone,

and give me a ride in your beat-up car.

You pick me up outside the Zig-Zag Bar & Grill.

You lean across to open my door

and give me a ride in your beat-up car,

that later becomes our beat-up car.

You lean across to open my door,

and the rest, my love, is history.

Our beat-up car,

also gone.

The rest, my love, is history. 

That little Spanish-Chinese place on 81st & Amsterdam.

Astronauts

Tucked into the top bunk you call Heaven, 

your sister fast asleep on Earth, 

you wait for those final moments 

before the day’s gates close 

to hurl your most pressing questions 

into the dark…When did time start?  

Where is everything that died? 

One night you said if Dad and I had just been astronauts 

we would have understood everything –

as if all the mysteries of living 

would be perfectly clear  

if only we could get enough distance.

Lying beside you, eyes closed, the night sky 

opening within me, I felt myself floating 

weightless, and I pictured the earth.

There were no trees or people or bread or cars.

It looked like that photo we’ve all seen

taken from space – the blue and green sphere 

with veils of white around it.  I found it wholly 

unfamiliar, almost unlovable.  In the dark 

I felt your skinny arm next to mine.  

We didn’t say another word that night,

just lay there drifting with our questions.

Questions for My Tribe in Midlife

Was it a cloud or a pillar of fire

that led you lost people

through the desert? 

And were you lost, 

or merely uncertain

as I feel nearly every day now? 

And when you say 

‘wandered,’ 

do you mean your time 

was unstructured

and so, felt endless  –

your looking 

brought no pleasure?

And when you looked,

could you see through 

the cloud, or was it 

like driving through fog 

on the Cape? 

And the moisture beading up 

on your forearm, 

was that God?  

And the fire

with its bright noise, 

did it frighten 

or delight?

And how long 

would this go on, anyway,  

this not being 

here nor there?