Here are three poems written very recently. This is the only way I know to put them out into the world at this time! Here world!
MARY OLIVER
is a much-loved poet.
A single poem may show her
outdoors observing and absorbing
nature, offering life lessons.
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t
like her. She is exactly
what a poet should be.
I stay inside too much. Mary
Oliver makes me feel like
I should be sitting out in the woods more,
learning the names of the trees
and teaching my children
their secrets.
I cannot even classify my dead
indoor plant. It is a sign of things gone wrong.
It is a sign my husband
can point to proving that I am not
taking care of anything, though
I have surreptiously hired a girl
to help me clean for two
hours each week.
Meanwhile, I am reading the book
Three Cups of Tea – people said it
was good. It is about a man building
schools
in remote parts of Pakistan
What am I doing with my life?
I go outside to throw away
the dead plant and notice the Halloween
pumpkins rotting on the front stoop.
My neighbors have started putting up
their Christmas decorations. I look back
at the blue foil wreath from
last Christmas
still hanging on
our front door.
I take the pumpkins behind the house
and fling the small ones
down the hill into the small
wooded area at the end of our back yard.
I pick up the big mushy pumpkin last;
its clown-like face is caved in on top.
I name it Mary Oliver. Well Mary I say
and chunk her back into the woods
where she loves to be.
ON THE FEAST OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION 2010
This is what they will tell you:
That Mary was conceived without
Original Sin. That her parents
were probably called Joachim and Anne.
That they were probably holy people.
That no one has ever witnessed
an immaculate conception.
Do you think it was
a very proper event? Did they maybe
have intercourse routinely on Wednesday
afternoons? Did she lift the edge
of her tunic demurely and lie back,
a martyr to the whims of man?
Did he look off to the side while
thrusting discreetly, finishing
with a sharp breath in, a slow sigh out?
Or did he arrive home from work one day
to find her making supper, flour
on her cheek when she turned to greet him,
adorable and smiling? Did her heart jump
when he looked at her with such
admiration and desire? Did they even
make it behind the curtain?
Were there tunics everywhere?
Did she pull him eagerly into her?
Did he try to muffle his shouts when
he called out her name? Did she laugh
when a drop of sweat fell off the end
of his nose? When talking later across
the food, did they suddenly pause, amazed,
as they felt their lives shifting,
fully aware the exact second
the miracle took place?
Years later when their young daughter
comes to them with her own miracle,
they will not be undone –
they already know the crazy mystery
of the madness of their interfering God.
EXCEPTIONAL
I am in therapy with my husband again.
I don’t like the new place. The floor is mud,
and though there are rugs, by the time I reach
one I am already slurping up to my knees
and forgo it out of politeness. My husband somehow
keeps making it onto a couch without getting
filthy or damaging it, while the therapist waits
comfortably in an oversized armchair.
The light is so dim, I have to squint a lot.
Whether it is couples therapy or divorce therapy
is still up in the air. I am focused on doing what is right,
not wanting to fuck up sainthood. From her throne,
the therapist suggests that maybe I think I am
exceptional. I take it she is not trying to become a saint.
I decide not to tell them that last week
I stopped taking all of my medications,
missed two days and then deliberately let it go.
My priest says that I am in a certain phase of life,
a normal phase. If only I could find somewhere
to breathe without gasping, somewhere to take off
all my clothes and the act remain pure. If only I could
find the map showing me how to get to the next spot.
There will be people following me. I don’t want to become
some statue they travel a long way to see or some
bit of bone they hold to gain power.
I just want to be a light in the window.
