LOST AND FOUND

This morning the slate gray sky
Becomes bright blue for a moment
Before dusting back to gray again.
A transitory sun in late December
Melts the fresh snow, so soft, so powdery,
It flutters from my hands like lost feathers
From a thousand homeless birds.

At the bridge I stop and watch chunks
Of ice float down the river, small islands
Of slush coursing over rocks worn smooth
With the passage of a million seasons.

How many seasons are there between us?

In town, at the post office, at the pharmacy,
I stare into every window hoping to catch
A glimmer of the woman I once was
When you knew me, when I was loved.

Where is she? Traveling on a scenic train?
Riding across country, stopping at every dollar store
For a coloring book for her daughter, an airplane
For her son? Is she hiding in the dressing room
Of some fancy department store trying on a piece
Of clothing you will never see, a piece she will never own?

I’ve been searching for her
In every coffee cup, every sticky counter,
In the dark halls of every bar, every church,
In the startled trees, the snow-capped mountains,
In the star-pricked sky, the glittering river.

Where has she gone?

Sometimes, late at night, I dream
She’s in your arms where I belonged
Years ago when you still loved me,
Years ago when I was someone else.


***


WINTER SALE

She sent me catalogues of jewelry on sale:
sparkling diamonds, flashy emeralds,
fiery rubies, classic pearls set in rings,
tennis bracelets, necklaces, broaches.

She mailed me a flyer announcing
a half-price sale on lingerie:
lacy red and white teddies,
push-up bras in satin,
silky peek-a-boo underwear,
fish net stockings and garters.

She called to remind me of the annual
model makeover sponsored by Lancôme:
new shades of charcoal and cinnamon,
licorice ice and cranberry red,
smudge proof mascara and no wrinkles foundation.
One day only, she said.

She sent me applications for store credit,
extending the 25% discount for one day’s shopping
even after the coupon had expired. She said
I had to get a new wardrobe, start a new life.
What she didn’t mention was
the after effects of shopping, the headaches
from sudden withdrawal, the second job to pay
for the credit. All she talked about was the new
shoes to match the new dress, the blind date to
enhance the atmosphere of elegance.

I told her to stop it.
I did not want a new coat,
a new dress, a new set of earrings.
My old cotton underwear would do.
So would my plain, no make-up face
and my worn-out tennis shoes.
I had no money, needed no credit.
Wanted no boyfriend, needed no second job.

And what she sent me was this:
an article of fashion and longevity,
how the two were somehow related.

I tore the article up along with the catalogues,
flyers, and store credit card applications. I turned
on the answering machine and filled the tub.
I had enough trouble for one evening.
I wanted to be ugly, unfashionable and alone
even if it cost me seven years of my life.


***


LAST SEASON OF LOVE

The tree in our front yard
sheds her amber and russet gown.
Like a woman on a diet
who has lost fifty pounds,
she shifts her hips provocatively,
bends her arms in come-hither whispers
showcasing her naked limbs
like the nude statue in the park
beside the bridge where you professed
your love to me, offering all you had,
which was only this—you.

With the bitter chill of winter winds,
we retreat inside. If we dare to venture
beyond these frosted windows,
we bundle up, hide the extra jiggle
of our arms beneath turtleneck sweaters,
shove our wide hips into slacks once loose,
and slip gloves over our chapped hands.
We brave the elements, remembering
the faint glimmer of fall, the distant
memory of summer, the promise of spring
somewhere in the rainbow after the first storm.

Our love has weathered the tide
of having and not having,
of caring and indifference,
the hallmarks of a hundred seasons of love
beginning with the blush of a first kiss
and ending with an endless quarrel
over some fundamental difference
that once was nothing more than dandelion dust
but now has grown into a stubborn mountain.

Maybe if we can drop our defenses
like leaves on a tree, one at a time,
we can marvel at the stark beauty
of our uniqueness—the things that make
you only you
and
me only me.

We can start from this last season of love
and work our way back to the beginning.


***


SNOW QUEEN

Backstage in the green room
he takes a black Sharpie pen
and draws on my skin.
Dark snowflakes cluster around
the clasp of my diamond choker,
a blizzard swirls over my shoulder blade
and settles in a mound at the hollow of my back.

"Do you like it?" he asks,
handing me a mirror.
The dressing room table,
rimmed with yellow bulbs,
reflects the winter of my dreams
flexing through skin.
"Yes," I smile, "it’s beautiful."

Onstage, I turn
for the audience to see
snow melting
down my back,
its shadows black,
my skin white,
my dress blue.


***


ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

Behind the black rail,
A mannequin sports a red
velvet thong and a fluffy
white-trimmed bra
in the full-length window
of Fredrick’s of Hollywood.
Her frozen smile
tempts shoppers
who huddle in wool jackets
to daydream of a mmm-hmmm
Christmas.

I wonder if I’ll ever be
Santa’s sexy elf, though I resist
the temptation to try on a suit
just for fun to see how many pounds
I have to lose, how much tummy
I have to tighten, how much fat
I have left on my German thighs.
Always wanting to be more
than I am, I forget who I am:
a mother, wife, sister, friend
who is loved day after day,
year after year, not only on Christmas


***


WINTER VACATION

Once, during winter solstice,
sports jerseys and gift shirts
jumped out of the closet,
paraded around the living room,
dancing and swaying
to big band blues.

Sequined gowns clung
to dark tuxedos. Cowboy
hats tipped to white gloves.
Silk scarves confided
in pearl earrings.
White tennis shoes
kissed black heels.

All the clothes bought
and never worn declared
the body eccentric,
without need for apparel,
much less to accessorize.

Knowing they would not
be missed, they disappeared

Necklaces ran away
with nylons. Bras
divorced underwear.
Tube socks testified
they had never touched
clean or dirty toes


***


CHRISTMAS CARD FROM BIG BROTHER

In the Safeway checkout line, you spot
the perfect Christmas card for me.
Not the sappy old-fashioned rhymes
or politically correct, “Happy Holidays,”
but something specifically just for me.

On the cover, a housewife in a white pinafore
leans over the headboard with a rag and smiles as she dusts.
Inside, it reads:
Cook breakfast, send the kids to school,
polish the handcuff nicks off the headboard.
All in a day’s work for a busy housewife.

I laugh, seeing myself reflected
through your eyes, no longer your baby sister,
but a woman with a husband and three kids.
For now, the hustle and bustle of staying home
leaves me wanting entertainment beyond
the scope of marriage and parenthood,
and you, with your keen sense of humor,
recognize this, validate this, with the card
you purchased for me. “Put it on the refrigerator
beneath the soccer practice schedule,” you say.
“That way you’ll remember to smile.”

Now, I don’t mind as much when the eight-year old
spills ketchup on the new linoleum
or the five-year old plays open shut with the refrigerator door
or the three-year old cries until noon.
I swat their bottoms, send them to their rooms.
June Cleaver continues to polish those nicks
off the headboard against the symphony
of the refrigerator’s wild-woman-roar.


***


NO SURRENDER

Cotton-candy sky,
And you dream of Venus,
Sifting through her winter clothes
With nothing to wear.
Her blue robes are too heavy.
Her white gowns, too pristine.
Her brown and gray slippers, soleless.

Tell Venus to forget her wardrobe.
Tell her to dance naked beneath a full moon
Or hide beneath a blush.

For if one is beautiful and if beauty is truly rare,
Then I will not surrender it.
I will take it with me wherever I go,
And shop for it with eyes of discrimination.
I will carry it with me like an amulet,
Admire its smooth surface, its ethereal glow.
I will kiss it often and not enough.

I will not expose it to the ugliness
Of petty arguments. Nor will I
Sell or trade it to cover the bills.

I will hold onto it
Like you held onto me,
As something precious and irreplaceable
In a city of lost items waiting to be found.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.12.2009

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