From a Poem Published in Cimarron Review

This is one of two poems published in Cimarron Review and it’s been slightly edited from its original published form. This is from issue number two hundred and eleven.

Fixed

I will take the birds falling,

I will take the husband, head resting against a white pillow

thinking of Monday evening, how family comes together

like a building or train tracks over any and every terrain

and how in many ways, sadly, it didn't.

Or couldn't.

When he is ill, which he has been.  When I am silent before

and after dinner,

a bowl of cereal.  The birthday cake, white and unfolding

into coconut dust.  I will take the too-sweet taste

and wax it bitter.

I will take the sore throat, and have, swallowing the same syrup

seventy times over…

(I made a little edit here!!)

I will take the boots marching,

I will take the daughter falling asleep in my arms; my husband

whispering this matters,

and he is right,

as we are often right together and the children are clear

what they most want is a dog.

I take the birds falling because

all evening I felt afraid,

then wasn't scared at all.  Last night the moon bloomed

over the house like a white flame and I walked out

the front door past the apricot tree,

its pink blossoms blue in the strange

light, and stood under that sky for no reason whatsoever.

Every hour afterwards I woke up and the moon loomed

through the east-facing window, orange as a pumpkin.

Next it was a grin, bright with teeth,

then it was a berry, glowing,

two kinds of shadow cast by

earth.

When I think of beauty

I see my children.  They are made of distant stars,

soft as wax but longer lasting,

at least we have that.