His Shaving Cuts
His shaving cuts, his big brow bones,
that quick smile. He stands in the doorway
under the skylight in a freak shine of sun,
snow bright. The whole city’s blinded,
shovelers out in their shades on every street,
bend and toss, dangerous pavement.
But not to him. Schoolboy grin, bits of tissue
stuck to his cheek, he’s thinking snow day,
canceled work, where are my gaiters?
Then a quick kiss and out the door.
Shush of his skis gliding down the street
past the stench and groan of snow blowers.
Where does Spirit live? Can it be held
in language, in giddy words unhindered
like the twittering of birds? Not rules,
but joy where I see only work.
This kind of breaking and entering
I can take. Him stepping into snowshine,
even if it so welcomes, so blazes around him
there’s no way back.
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
Practice
It all clouds, crowds back — my sister
hunched over the keys, cluster of notes
her hands can’t reach or make fast enough.
She tries over and over that one tiny patch
of Bach, pulled out from the rest like rubble
at the shore we’d poke through for treasure.
“If you are squeamish,” Sappho says,
“don’t prod the beach rubble,” Sappho
who lived by the sea, soaking in its rhythms,
that first heavy wave shush hitting shore,
then the next softer shush and again, shush.
My sister shushed me as over and over
she prodded those keys until finally
a cloud would burst, her fists would slam
down in a crash of sound, a wail of how
she’ll never get it right, never be good
enough, it’s too hard. But then the storm
would pass and she’d be trying again.
For years I heard only repeated pieces
like our old Evinrude refusing to start,
the choke not right, the engine not
catching, no sputter and shift into glide.
I had no clue what magnificent cargo
my sister was trying to haul, what was
inside the piano and inside her, depths
the ocean only hints at tossing up rubble,
fragments of Sappho, notes my sister now
lifts off the page, pours through her hands,
until if you didn’t know you’d think
it was always easy, always whole.
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
Without You
First time I listen to Thelonious Monk
without you, the recording we left in the car
that ends with the band working out a tune,
the start and stop of it before flow, Monk’s
voice coming as if from beyond the grave.
I saw graves from the church parking lot
where I waited to meet our friend M
to walk her new dog you’ve never seen,
10 pounds — you’d chuckle, the way it runs
on short legs like a windup toy.
First pretzels I’ve eaten without you —
leg cramps, so our son said they’d help,
the salt, which people called me in contrast
to sweet you, which must be right, given how
mosquitoes passed by me to swarm you
as when I first took you to the ocean
where we kissed, until you started jerking,
slapping your arms. Weird. But then I saw
you were getting bitten, so we stopped,
then resumed kissing in the car. First time
I thought of that in months. People say
memories console, but without you?
All those jazz ballads I can’t listen to
without you. First food binge, chocolate,
even before I got home from the store,
and later too many pretzels as if I ate
for us both. We were such a both,
watching movies on the couch, our hands
meeting in the popcorn bowl, so we’d grab
fingers and kiss awhile, then have to rewind.
Our granddaughter texted pictures of frogs
I looked at without you, thinking how you
would have belched, made those rib-bit sounds,
and bugged out your eyes, then said what a good
photographer she’s become. I took a chance
and walked to the pond where we’d listen
to frogs. But it was nearly dry from drought —
no dragon flies, no lily pads, just soggy leaves
on the bottom, black muck, green algae scum.
See what’s become of the world without you?