two large men — bearded and bald —
stop to breathe in
peonies
heavy rain
I am not afraid
the leaky roof was repaired last week
from the other side of the country
my mother's laugh
finds me
a young girl
picks a bouquet
of chocolate mint / /
muddy footprints
fill that small patch of garden
sister — do you remember —
each tentative step
from shore to sea
we wait for the ferry
a well-packed picnic basket
at our feet / /
one of us
thinks only of death
black and white photo
your yellow sundress
in my mind's eye
when we hug
your cheek bruises mine —
so much has changed this last year
leading me down the middle path
yellow butterfly
here you are again
my father and his cigars
still together
after all these years
crossing the wide avenue
mother
don't let go
first bunch of radishes
the veins on my hands
more pronounced
once I thought
all black birds
were the same / /
what will I laugh about
next year?
in my Brownie uniform
(and beanie)
how special I felt / /
we stuck cloves in apples
and called it Arts & Crafts
on my bookcase
a basket of seashells
coated in dust / /
years and miles from the ocean
make room
for African violets —
breathe slower
after ballet class
we stand in 1st position
my sister and I . . . .
that is all
we remember
fish tank
in our building's lobby —
mother says
they're sleeping —
dad mouths the word
dead
I bring chalk —
my friend has a bottle cap —
we play Potsie 'til the light fades
growing out of a crack
in a Bronx sidewalk
the first dandelion / /
mother says
"it's like living in the country now"
if I walked through puddles
instead of around them
would we ever have met?
mid June
I spend the whole afternoon
drawing flowers
slow walk
through birdsong
my body is healing
broken sidewalk
I meant to take a different route —
absent-mindedness
viewing us
from behind his camera
Grandpa never says "smile"
buried in the dream garden
you
and your broken old guitar
re-arranging my bedroom
Kwan Yin
is everywhere
beside the hall mirror
mother hangs a photograph
of herself
purple shawl across
an unmade bed —
so many yesterdays
the untuned piano
flowers dying in the vase
even the mail is late
scrabble tiles
photos of fake ancestors —
good day at the flea market
guarding the entrance
to our apartment building —
two carved lions
and the neighborhood bum
my father's lost record collection
still mourned
65 years later
before bed
polishing the whites of
our saddle shoes / /
my sister and I
long for patent leather sling-backs
they called her the Cat Lady
she was kind to me
my great-aunt Helen
next door:
a man and his fish tank
(and his lonely wife)
after a hard rain
goodbye
irises
new morning
stepping around
my same old fears
waking three times in the night
always the same
rainfall
walking into the morning fog to clear my head
surprise:
a perfect mushroom
at the bottom of the stairs
carelessly
you toss it into your straw hat —
my wildflower bouquet
two clouds
meet each other
for the first and only time
I waited all night
for you —
mauve breeze
we don't have a Special Thing, I whine,
bemoaning our lack of daily ritual.
Not having a Special Thing is our Thing,
Blue says,
wise owlwoman that she is.
After a pause she adds,
our Special Thing is loving each other
every day
my dear little city
today the mourning doves
weep for you
creekside walk
I stop to watch a rabbit
breathe
pink rose
pushing through a spider's web —
my neighbor's front porch
first night in a new city
hello
same old moon / /
home
again
watering the coleus
butterfly
I went looking for you . . .
you found me
left at the side of the road
a 5-drawer dresser
so much emptiness
