I wrote this when I was twenty-one: when life felt immediate, unstoppable,
and sadness, marriage, and children were new frontiers,
not destinations.
The breath was already there,
but it moved harder, faster, like standing barefoot on sun-heated sand.
Sadness, Marriage, Children
Sadness
He was sad. He felt like
he might be sad for many years more.
As though this moment of sadness
contained, also, his anticipation;
and if he climbed into this sadness, and
took one step across it, if he leapt
into space, he would fly
for the first time.
And endings should be this way, with
happiness in one’s eyes, opened to
the pink light of morning,
passion upon descent;
and brains and teeth, whose chattering
on the sidewalk, makes accompaniment
to wind sounds brushing across his hair.
Marriage
Strong-willed enough
She does not want
To marry.
Children
Would take him to new regions
of the overpopulated plains,
with spiraled stalks of buffalo chips
dotting the sides of the road;
and circumnavigating deep canyons, tracts
of stucco houses, deeper stillness,
further still like this night
“on the lone prairie”
We have been married for three years; diving
still into plates of oysters with a very dry Chablis.
We have been married for twenty years or more;
the glasses with long encrusted water spots are in the cupboard
if you want them.
Comments
Post a Comment