Everything is Opening

a hot Sunday
late May, 1972
my roommate has just gotten married
that very morning
in the woods
wearing cut-off jeans
and a tie-dyed tank top
strands of bells
tied around her ankles
her new husband
shaved his head
for the occasion
i wore my best flannel nightgown
and a pair of knee-high brown suede boots
i was the most dressed-up one there

no minister
no rabbi
a de-frocked priest said a few words
we don’t know if it was legal
we don’t care

later, back in ithaca
we gather in a neighbor’s garden
the dogs have just woken up
confused, curious
and the chickens seem anxious
but we are not the sort of people
who eat our friends’ pets

we are people
who play tambourines and banjos
and sing out of tune
loudly
and one of us
(i won’t name a name)
goes up onto the back porch
to scratch a small poem
into the wooden floor

then it is night
we sing louder
louder
we make a fire
drink cheap wine
laugh and dance

the future waits for us
opening opening opening
everything is opening


—

NOTE: 
I wrote this on Sunday, May 5, after reading THE DOGS WOKE ME UP, by Marty Cain (borrowing some words from sections 1, 2, and 3)

Thirty Wind Chimes

Utica Street in downtown Ithaca is one of my favorite places to walk. It's not terribly long (though it is longer than its near neighbor, Short Street) and it smells good, especially in spring and summer — the scent of flowers mingling with cooking smells. It's a quiet street, except for the sound of house construction and re-construction, which takes place in every season.

Yesterday I decided to put more focus into my walk, so I counted the number of wind chimes I saw on the porches.

Thirty.

That includes 4 bells that wouldn't chime on their own but might make a lovely sound if they were helped along by something stronger than a breeze.

For about half a block I was stuck at the number 13 and had to keep repeating "13, 13, 13, 13" inside my head so I wouldn't lose my place.

Then I came to a house with 3 wind chimes and after that I was on a roll.

Sometimes it was hard to distinguish a wind chime from a mobile, or a cleverly-disguised bird feeder. I was squinting up at a porch when a woman across the street said "Doesn't that remind you of the house on Irving Place?"

But it turned out she wasn't talking to me, she was talking to the man a few paces behind her. And she wasn't even referring to the house I was looking at.

Of course this made me wonder about Irving Place. Which I don't know at all. I do know a few men named Irving, though, so I thought about them for a while. There was my Uncle Irving, Mom’s older brother who died before I was born. And my parents' close friend, Irv Friedman. And a fella I knew in my early twenties, a truly wild man, he was also an Irving.

Perhaps I would have been named Irving, if I had been a boy.

By now the woman and man from across the street were far ahead of me, and the mystery of Irving Place remains, forever, unsolved.

I could have counted white butterflies instead of wind chimes. Or anything else: broken bicycles, hanging fuchsia plants, abandoned ladders, fire-hydrants covered over with weeds and wildflowers. 

But yesterday it was all about the wind chimes. It was such a still day. Not one of them made a sound.

---

lazy afternoon
even the wind chimes
are napping

The Small Brown Bag

he was the button man
Mr Horowitz
his store was on Tremont Avenue
he was a small man
his shop was small too
even the buttons were small

it didn’t smell good in there
but what made it so stinky?
not the buttons
buttons don’t smell
maybe it was the sardines

Mr Horowitz ate a sardine sandwich
on pumpernickel
in his store
every day for lunch

this is how I know:
Mr Horowitz was Shulamith’s grandpa
Shulamith Horowitz
call me Susan she begged
all her friends in Miss Malone’s class
so we did

but I thought Shulamith was a pretty name
and sometimes I’d say it inside my head
just so I could hear
if I was listening —
Shooooo laa mith

Shulamith Susan Horowitz was not small
she was tall
she was taller than her grandpa
she didn’t call him Mr Horowitz
she called him Grandpa Tiny

I didn’t call my grandpa Mr Kaplan
(of course not!)
I called him Grandpa Joe

Shulamith Susan Horowitz had red hair
it was curly and it was long
she said she hated her hair
she tried to straighten it by wrapping it
in big fat pink plastic curlers
she said it hurt her to sleep in the curlers
her head felt like it was on fire
but it was worth it, she said —
that’s how much she hated her hair

her grandfather
Mr Horowitz
didn’t have any hair
he had a mustache but he didn’t have
any hair on his head
Shulamith Susan Horowitz did not call him
Grandpa Baldy
and that’s a good thing

my mother was named Eva
she was never ever ever called Eva by anyone in the world
except by her father, my Grandpa Joe
everyone else called her Eve
I don’t know why my mother hated to be called Eva
but she did —
I called her mommy

my mother was a good knitter
she made little hats for my sister and me
she made us mittens and sweaters
she made us vests

once she made me a sweater out of mohair wool
it was light blue
fluffy and oh-so-soft to touch
but this is something that I don’t understand
the mohair sweater was soft to touch
but it was itchy to wear

I wore it anyway because it was so pretty
and my mother made it for me
and sometimes you have to suffer to be beautiful
my mother used to say that
a lot
I hated it when she said that

my mother had to go see Mr Horowitz in his button store
she needed to buy buttons 
to sew onto a new sweater she made
it was a Saturday morning and
she took me with her
she didn’t say it was stinky in the store
maybe she couldn’t smell the sardines

she was very smiley to Mr Horowitz
and he was very smiley to her
he let her look around at all the buttons on her own
he didn’t think he had to keep showing her stuff
my mother didn’t like it when men in stores
kept showing her stuff
like they knew what she wanted but she didn’t know
my mother would ignore the men
when they did that
she would act like she didn’t even hear them

sometimes my mother was a queen
and I was happy to be her little princess
but I didn’t want anyone to call me that
it is terrible to be called a little princess
Mr Horowitz did not call me that

but on that Saturday he handed over a small brown bag
filled with all the buttons my mother had just bought
he stood up on his toes and reached
all the way over the wooden counter
and he handed my mother the bag

I want to hold it I said
and my mother handed me the bag
and Mr Horowitz said to me
you are Little Miss Holdjit
why did he have to say that?
I didn’t like it

my mother laughed
but I did not laugh
I didn’t see what was so funny

we left the stinky button store
I held the bag of buttons
I felt bad

I told my mother
I am not Little Miss Holdjit
my mother said she knew that I wasn’t
but you laughed I said
I was just being polite
I am never going to laugh just to be polite I said
and I meant it

my mother said
let’s get a slice at Sal’s
so that is what we did
we walked to the end of the block and on the corner
there was Sal’s Pizza

we didn’t even have to go inside
we stood at the window and Sal was there
like he always was
so my mother held up two fingers
and in a minute we each had a slice

and then we walked home
I was still holding the small brown bag