Her Chair
My mother must have been tired
of being mother, wife, some patient’s
nurse, tired of a house of dust
and abandoned appliances
drained of their usefulness,
of house keys, doormats,
throbbing of my father’s TV
and ringing telephone, his primitive
remote slipping beneath easy
chair cushions. Home from work,
seeing spilled toys, clothes, books,
my dolls with their dead faces,
why was she never tempted
to leave, seek quiet somewhere
besides our crumbling house
with its falling kitchen tiles,
gift-paper skeletons of past
Christmases, fossils of my father’s
home improvements, his threadbare
underwear, soiled dress shirts, jeans?
Home from the hospital wards,
long shifts of tending and mending
strangers, didn’t she have a right
to refuse us dinner, refuse us
everything? But she came home,
full grocery bags intact despite
her walk from the bus stop,
despite our bathroom clutter
of toothbrushes, washcloths,
kitchen with the broken-clock
oven, living room
with no recliner for her,
no easy chair for her hard work.
* * *
Pediophobia
–fear of dolls
Their eyes never close,
these daughters without
mothers—toxic flesh,
curls made of anything
but hair, mouths shaped
into gaping holes
that cry with no voices.
I never wanted that doll
advertised on Saturday
morning TV—”Baby Alive”
whose creepy face
worked an imaginary
bottle, sucking and wetting.
Little bottle, little diaper,
all of it plastic, none
of it real. What was she
preparing us girls for—
with her pink spoon and
food you mixed with water,
only to have her eliminate
it moments later? My
childhood friends coveted
her, tried to shove her
in my arms, but I’d
push her back, not
wanting her ever, no
matter what color
her skin, texture her hair.
Who needs a baby,
I thought, who will always
be mute, mimic of life
never living, never breathing?
* * *
Sex: A Lesson
Be attentive—there are nuances
you don’t want to miss: heady steam
of your lover’s breath, heavy as
midnight fog, vulnerable skin
beneath an upward-tilted chin,
lips awaiting lips. Big landscapes,
little plains, twists of curves, crepe-
paper wrinkles: all need more
than furtive love, clandestine
attention. Whatever strategy
you choose—head-to-toe,
shake, then shiver, soccer stadium
shoutouts—goals are to be savored,
not labored, although lovemaking
is labor, its wages not of sin,
but of surrender, of sinking in,
making room, limbs loose
long liquid, bodies fluttering
with blood-pulse and heart-thrum.
Traction meets attraction,
sweat meets sore, solace meets
satiety, all our hungers heavy
as whispers, fleeting as centuries,
slick as our wayward fingers.
* * *
Rondeau Redouble for the Women Left Behind
The women mourn and hoist the coffins high,
limp bodies of their husbands trapped inside,
their shoulders strong, their burdens to the sky,
their sons gone off to war. The coffins ride
upon the strength of women who have cried
for lives they could not save, though they would try
with prayer books and candlelight. Dull-eyed,
the women mourn and hoist the coffins high,
dressed in damp widows’ robes, they sanctify
this meager stretch of beach, this grasping tide.
Six women to each box, they dignify
the bodies of their husbands trapped inside,
yes, brothers’ bodies too—no males to guide
the village out of misery, no men to mollify
the constant threat of death, of genocide.
Their shoulders strong, their burdens to the sky,
their voices snagged in hymn, they glorify
the Savior leading them to riverside
where they will let these burdens go. Goodbye
to sons gone off to war. The coffins ride
until they sink into the splash, collide
and bang against the riverbank, deny
an easy grief. Such pain too raw to just subside,
the women mourn.
* * *
Ode to Sandals
How I’ve missed your open
comfort, your leather against bare skin,
summer sun on straps, holding
my feet in with the ease
only you provide. All this brutish winter,
with its jagged winds and icy
spiteful sleet, I dreamed of you,
of slipping my feet into you and striding
off into a new adventure,
getting lost in damp grass newly
wet from a neighbor’s trippy sprinkler.
You hate formalities, and I
love your aimless sexy ways,
keeping me vulnerable
but shod, strapped around my ankles
like a gladiator’s, jubilant
as I skip over stones and muddy puddles,
sidewalks and streams, toes
bold to get wet, all the world
lush with drinking spring, humid breath
of summer lurking beneath.
You make me strut, greatest
dancer in the kingdom. I slip you on and off
like a changeling, wear you barelegged
with swirling skirts. You care
not for how much I weigh, if my back aches.
Contained by you, my feet swell with joy.