Yellowed, In An
Old Chestnut Trunk
Dear, dear mother
you can imagine
how I weep when
I think how I
can no longer
see you. I
hope that you
may all live with
joy and may
never any harm
come to you.
Remember my eyes
in the blue hyacinth
January 5
only the oak
leaves still
hanging on.
Brutal, these
sunless days.
A lie, it’s
your words,
their pallor,
their knives.
If any light is
staying longer,
I’d never know it
Jan 5
he said getting
an e-mail
from me
could be sipped
like cognac. To
him, elusive
as the words,
he can make what
he wants out
of. I’m his,
molten, liquid,
ready to take
shape in his
arms or a
knife in some others
January 5
the men who don’t
know me are the
ones who adore
me most. They
are sure I am
what they are
reading, elusive
but leaving
enough clues to
let them shape
me as they
wish: I’m clay
and air, their
own secret
confession
January 7, Blue
blues throb,
an Achilles about
to tear, leave me
crippled, torn as
the news seems
today. Indigo
blue, cobalt
blue, a no hope
blue. Ice blue,
nothing sparkling
as sapphire but
a blue as empty as
the nest in the
crotch of
the tree, all
that’s left of
when birds were
singing in it
January 7 Blues
Chopin didn’t help,
not the cat on
the grate near my
feet. Liszt
doesn’t either.
Sun doesn’t,
bright as a split
orange or the
cat in new
light, the
days they say
getting longer
These Blues
an iron lung.
I’m trapped.
You’d think I
couldn’t breathe
without it,
paralyzed by
some virus,
my legs not
my legs. No
need for a new
Bloomingdale’s
velvet jacket.
Might as well
have as Polio
hospitals did,
a notice: “all
visitors must
receive permission
to enter”
January 9 Blues
Blue on a day
gorgeous as a
Polio cell and
as invasive,
dangerous. The
life cycle of
the Polio virus
enters a human
nerve cells,
intriguing as
blue flowers,
a sapphire
ornament
hanging from
a tree, as harm-
less as a
suave lover
who sweeps a
damaged woman
into his arms,
invades, gives
her family rings,
leaves her
paralyzed
Blue Saturday
I write “get
attention” for
“get permissions.”
I try to soak
up the sun as
the cat does, try to
let it thaw
the blues but
they are stubborn
as she is
choosing her
litter box to be
anywhere in
the house. And
like these dark
cobalt stones,
these blues
seem too heavy
to move,
leave a mess
January 7
my cat’s eyes
look green
this day the
blues handcuffs me
I can’t move.
Cars move past.
Bare branches
hardly gleam.
Who could believe
anything could blossom
from such cold?
The cat finds a slot
of light, all she
wants is some
thing warm too
January 7
no Saturdays
so still
I think of the house
after my 20 year
old cat died,
how I noticed
each ice click,
the heat going
on and off.
How my mother
cooed for her
in another house
where my mother’s
white hair lasts
in my old T Bird
longer than she has
