Outside the Maximum-Security at Dannemora
Women hunch over bags
of candy, soap, gallons of soda
and kids —
all they’ll carry inside.
Wet sneakers slide
through slush,
devoted, slow.
The women will dump plastic
sacks on command,
a guard to finger each item,
documents scanned.
Pilgrims with valid ID
shiver and stamp their feet.
No one sees inside
their downstate hoods.
Mother-of-sorrow faces
from the Bronx to arrive in time
to go inside.
Lines repeating like prayer,
the women wait and stand,
each week pay for the ride.
* * * * *
Calendar
On January first, we lift a fragile
flute and drink the new year dry.
If I sleep on Groundhog Day,
how do I crawl out of February?
Hellebores blooming like March
hallucinations tell the time.
Clear twigs and leaves in April,
unearthing sow bugs, family secrets.
May is a month to plant annuals.
Soon, strangers will lean on the elm.
In June, celebrate wakefulness.
“Senescence” sounds like a nap.
The quickest way is in anger.
July wears out its welcome.
Lightning bolts guard the August
heavens with a crooked sword.
Grandkids buy backpacks in
September, summer’s stepchild.
A ginkgo sheds its leaves one
October day. Life drops away.
Tipping over comes naturally.
November has adopted me.
Born late December, I look ahead.
Time polishes down to the bones.