Lyn Lifshin, US
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Verse
Five Poems from
Cove Point
Ring
Lets say you, even though you know I
mean I, found this ring in your mother’s
closet in a shoe box of what mattered:
letters from the man she couldn’t marry,
pale blue ink on blue paper, bluesy
letters. Papers from the dog she would
never not long for. Then you see the ring,
Clara, etched on the 18 k gold. Do you
feel you’ve been shaken by a ghost though
the name’s not familiar? Or maybe you
ask every living relative, most who won’t
be for long: Who is Clara? If I were you,
I’d write poems with that title, put the ring
in a safe deposit box. What would you
think, before a trip to Peru, getting a
letter that Clara Lazarus died without a
will? Would you try to track her down,
you with the ring in your drawer or lock
box? Go to the deaths in Wilmington
where all the Lazaruses lived? Let's say
you are leaving for Paris, not Peru and
the lawyers want you to sign. Wouldn’t
you like some family history? Something
about this woman whose ring in a room
you used to sleep in mystifies? In testate
they will tell you it takes so long,
how they will search Europe for more
relatives. Wouldn’t you want to
know more about this Clara whose
finger is close to the size of your own?
The family tree they wrap the check in is a
mess. Jesus, you knew more not even
hearing of Clara. When you go to
slide on the ring, as if to enter her life the
only way you can, the ring is missing. On
the one you thought it was, nothing is
etched inside. After months of re-checking
jewel boxes, banks, would you begin
to think her name could have dissolved?
If it had slid thru your fingers, would
you think it is elusive as a soul?
Child Prodigy's Time To Die,
Something Great Mom Says
Now, I have to ask you because I
don’t
get it. If you had a child that began reading
as a toddler, played piano at 3 and then
gave a high school commencement speech
at ten saying he was so different, so unusual
he “practically qualified” for the endangered
species list. Would you just smile, or think
something is weird. Imagine your child is a
child prodigy because he is, they say,
composing and recording music, winning
violin competitions, breezing thru college
with an IQ of 178. You’ve got, lets say, this
kid who masters everything. Photography.
Math. He just hurtles thru life like a meteor.
Then you come home and your little genius
is dead, there on the floor, a gun shot wound
to his head, a hole apparently he put there.
Wouldn’t you be putting on your crying
shoes? Doing a wild “take a little piece of
my heart,” Janis Joplin, wailing and moaning?
Wouldn’t you shriek and wonder what you
didn’t see coming? Would you just come
out and say, as if you were talking about the
weather, “earthly world didn’t offer him
enough challenges and he felt it was time
to move on and do something great.” Jesus,
if I was his mother I’d wonder, wouldn’t
you, what kind of job I did home schooling
him, wonder about him taking Independent
Study High School by mail. When she
says “he was so connected to the spiritual
world he felt he could hear people’s needs and
desires and cries and we just felt like some
thing touched him that day and he knew he’d
have to leave to save others. He isn’t my
child, he isn’t yours but I wonder if maybe
he saw some other kids he could have stayed
Blue At The Table In The Hot Sun
give him a shot of light,
give him ragged glass
to escape thru,
black cat blues dogging
the bed
He, ok, it’s you, hell bound,
in a hurry. You’re pulling blue
out of the strings. Mama’s got
a brand new. It’s the table
in the light. Cat on the chair
with night scratching
Wind rattles the panes,
rattles gone love thru your
spine. Your baby’s
changed the lock on the door
If you’re still singing,
earth fills your lips
After 15 Years
its like not even one year is over.
When I couldn’t find your photo
graph it was losing your skin
again. It was there, the
one with your teeth still white, you
laughing near the Charles. When
I had you, I didn’t look ahead.
Alive, I couldn’t imagine
you wouldn’t always take the
car, bus or train to do any
thing you could: make
me tea, stay with some cat
you always wanted more from
as you did me. If you have
a new world down there,
under the roots of trees you
probably have too many phone
calls still. One friend says a
lady bug means her mother is
near. Or when a doll falls
off a chair it’s her mama talking.
I believe in little I can’t see
or hold though I have wondered
about words on a sheet or paper
the wind picks up and slams over
cars, as if that came from you.
I don’t know if it’s good not to
let the dead go, to imagine
they’ll be a sign when there never
has. You’ve never come back
except in dreams where when I
wake up and you’re still missing,
you’re the photograph I can’t stop
looking for
Five Poems: Ring,
Child Prodigy's Time To Die,
Something Great Mom Says,
Blue At The Table In The Hot Sun,
After 15 Years
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