Leaving Childhood
So what if the zinnias drop their skirts,
if the mock orange petals turn to dust,
the cherries sour — what is childhood?
I was happy, I was miserable. All I did
was sit and mope at the window, all I did
was run around in my cowgirl boots,
my cowgirl hat and vest, my two
six shooters I could quick draw, twirl
on my fingers, and blow bubbles
at the same time, though no matter
how I tried I could not whistle. Rain
tossed its cups and saucers in the road
and nothing really broke. I just grew.
Warm days, I lay on my back in the grass,
getting pricked by holly leaves, while birds
flew in and out, red birds after red berries.
Overhead grownups hovered like crows
rasping measure up, measure up,
till once in a frenzy of not caring,
my sister and I stole all the grapes
from our grandfather’s arbor, pelted
each other and danced in the slippery splat.
Under the covers, my stammer began
talking to me. It said, How smoothly
you speak when you swear, Little Dear.
And: One day you will stride unafraid
through a city of subways and singers,
old women feeding pigeons in the park,
city of sun-struck brick, of fog rolling in.
There, you will carry your childhood garden
within, three parts cheery, two parts sad,
and each day, after sunset’s hot flower
sheds its petals, shadows and streetlights
will carry you to your door, a light
in the window and if you wish, on the sill
bright flowers you have grown yourself.
* * * * *
At the County Fair
The juggler set eight red plates spinning,
one on each branch of a kind of candelabra
while my sister and I watched, wanting
to see if his perfection would last
until he set them down one by one
like a waiter with a roadhouse table
full of drunks. We also wanted
a clatter, a burst storm cloud of shards,
to see what the man would do if his bright
ruby platters crashed and skittered
at his feet — redden with shame, or shrug
and become a student of slivers and chips?
Suddenly, I felt sad for the hardness
of polished floors where things hit and break,
get swept up, tossed in the trash, not left
where they fall, to be buried under
layers of earth, then dug up centuries
later, shaken through a sieve — fragments
so old, to touch them would send tingles
through your fingers, leave you spinning
dizzy from all that time. But we were
still watching the juggler tip first one
plate, then another, just enough to
set each carefully down on a table
for tea with Grandmother — an excellence
my sister and I knew we’d never achieve.
All evening we wandered the fairgrounds
past prize horses, prize chickens and pigs,
the best relish, best pie, biggest pumpkin,
every booth with its blue ribbon and judge,
and how could we, with our pimples
and braces, our unremarkable pets,
and ordinary lives, not look for a stone
to kick, an ice cream cone covered with ants,
an ugly woman who was nevertheless
laughing, and having a glorious time?