The River
after Suzanne Frischkorn
It's easy to blame the sun
for the marks on her wrist;
the way it slices through
a limp horizon then hangs
on to the clouds for support.
There are two bottles half
alive though she did her best
to kill them. You want to wait
for the pull of the moon to take
away any answers that slipped
between the sheets but fear keeps
you from asking the questions.
Its too hard to look at tomorrow
when you're blindfolded by today
so you pick up her picture and leave.
A sparrow takes a twig in his beak
it looks like a strand of her hair,
he flies a straight line to the river,
a smooth cut across blue sky--
no jagged edges to make you cry.
Oyster Catcher
after Suzanne Frischkorn
I think of bleak mudflats, try to forget about summer,
my mind wanders from the book I am reading
about oystercatchers. I catch you looking over
my shoulder and pretend not to notice-- read another
line and wonder if you can sense my nervousness; br>
whether you care if black birds like to flock or wander
sand and shingles alone, waiting for someone to notice
the sharp edges of their beak. The sun coughs its way
across the sky-- the tables are overfull with books,
I watch as you act interested and I hope for a chance
to overhear a conversation or capture a picture of you
as you lean into the shade. You give the woman
at the desk five quarters: she is severe and looks at you
like you were a work in progress. I imagine you home
reading about orange-billed birds combing the beach;
can almost hear the rustle of leaves outside your window.
I pick a children's book from the ground, its pages turning
in the breeze. I notice you leave and as you look over
your shoulder I'm reminded of everything I didn't say.
I'm reminded of the river, the winter solstice, a young boy
that drowned dreaming of mermaids-- then wind dies down
I hear the lonely sound of a tanager, calling his mate.
Vernal Equinox
The last time we made love there was no moon; there were dishes
in the sink and snow on the ground. The upstairs room was unfinished
beams and hardwood floors. The promises were slow and easy,
your expectations wrapped themselves around the banister--you didn't
want to ever forget, you said, the way back home. That night your body
was a murmur--your eyes a silence cut only by the light
from the barest of whispers. In the broken moment between breaths--
the noise that the sheets made when you moved towards me was a foreign
language only we could understand.
The shudder of the window as night announced itself
could hardly disturb the still reflection of the trees as they swayed
themselves to sleep. There were no reasons to doubt
that everything wouldn't last; as the final drop of rain finished sliding
down the pane you drifted off. There was no moon, the plates could wait
and the snow would eventually melt.