You Were Given

 

You were sewed into me, like initials Mother fastened to my childhood sweater;  even beneath a pile of scarves and mittens, the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking package wrapped in skin, a growing tremor,
a terrifying wonder—and I was your living envelope, your place of origin. 
 
You adorned me, stretched me, and I was never happier.  But I made a lonely decision: you would be given; my arms would scarcely hold you.  Before then,

          we walked among blooming apples: green leaves fringed in pink,
          discreet and prudent bees.  We were never questioned by the trees.

          I spied a wedding at the pavilion: bridesmaids and groomsmen smiled
          and smoked cigarettes by the colonnade.  They were pictures to be taken.

          I pined to reach and pinch them—to stretch their skin and beat them,
          to syncopate their laughter with my wisdom—but we kept our cadence

          and our rhythm, like the rain that fell as your due date came and went.
          Then you appeared—and the rising river crested—my hidden-to-me girl.

          Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left me wrestling your trace.
          Your vestige burned where you leapt down to my boughs.   

When fall arrived, the park blustered.  The oaks hardened and released
their bright leaves.  I bit my lips and salt dried on my cheeks. 

I prayed for autumn to depart without pity.  I prayed to be like fired pottery. 
I prayed…and an unforeseen reply rolled toward me.  From the sidewalk

an infant cry scraped me.  I shuddered at the sudden flash and strike,
but stayed and waited until a distant rumbled comfort finally came.

Somehow, I asked the baby’s name.  A tiny hand raised.  The Mother
hushed her parcel.  And I stretched myself over the stroller—like a canopy.

Shepherds Of The Street

The shepherds of the street who pass our house
each day do not suppose they go their way for me.
By gentle steps, one or two move past our place.

At times, a posse walks up to the store
to meet some friends or buy a pack of smokes

and as they go, they talk to me if I am there
and rise above my fear to catch their eye.
Or I may give a Hey, to my surprise.

I am sure I never have that much to say,
but when we speak—or nod our heads to make a sign,
or pound our fists to greet, or even when,

from in the house, I hear them on their way—
I find their presence to be not unlike a compass.

The shepherds of the street do not suppose
they go for me, but, steady, move their feet
south by southwest or else north by northeast.

Bathtub

Bathtime!

I’m in the tub
and here’s the rub:
Mom says to get out soon.

The water’s warm,
and what’s the harm
in wrinkles like a prune?

I’m staying in!
Look, I can swim!
Let’s sing another tune.

Now close your eyes.
Here’s a surprise:
It’s me!—your goose-bump-goon.

November Highway

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
until the blue sky stoops,
until my radio receives
these strong November days.

They transmit Dylan’s boot leg
release number eight.
The buzz of amplifiers rises
when he breathes.  Once, he says,

I had a pretty girl, but she did me wrong.
Now I’m marching to the city
and the road ain’t long.
I join the sacred melody;

I join everyone
who moves over these highways.
We drive and sidewalks go beside us.
We sing and signals bend to find us.