my father

I was lucky enough to have two parents –
two devoted parents.

Growing up my parents assumed two
distinctive roles.

My father taught me to drive.
My father helped me write papers in high school,
write my college essays,
write my first resume.

Basically any task which involved patience.

Yea, he pressed his right hand into the dashboard
when he wished I pressed the brake with my foot.
And when he helped me with my writing he’d say,
“Jamie, write it the way you would say it.”

Words that still ring in my ears when I struggle moving
words around in a sentence.

As we sat at the kitchen table days before I would be leaving
to move to D.C. after graduating from college;
he helping me craft my first resume,
he shared, “you’ll never be hired for a job you can’t do.”

I think of that still. A boost to my confidence before an interview.
When my daughters apply for a job, and I’m coaching them for the interview.

Have you ever been hired for a job you can’t do?

Carry me away

I think I could turn and listen to the voice and strings of Rhiannon Giddens,
and fall into the Piedmont vocal chords, and banjo strings.
I’d lose myself in the winds over Appalachia, deep into the caves of memory.
They do not call me to remember a note left lying on my desk.
They do not remember unfinished tasks.
They do not stand silently waiting for me to lift my head.
Not one note that isn’t followed by a cotton dress swaying to a rhythm.
Not a single strum but one repeating til it trails off into a gentle song.
Not a dimly lit stage, but one that glows with amber light.
So I might trance out listening to one soulful voice.
They carry me away, dancing toward center stage.

 

 

 

 

For four days

I think I expected
this outcome.

On Sunday I’d been asked
if I wanted her to be moved
to the hospital.
I said no and
went to work for a couple of hours.

I sat with her
while a machine eased her breathing,
and before I left the nurse asked me about
hospice.

Monday I met with hospice
and sat with her each evening
after work.

Little seemed to change
from my vantage point.

And on Thursday
a call in the morning
told me that it looked like
today.

I sat with her for hours
reading,
rubbing her hands with oil,
and watching her breath

until she wasn’t.

word play

And what am I writing about tonight?
Blackness lies quiet beyond my window.

The words on the page lie quiet tonight.
I sit listening to the cat leaning down.

The cat leaning down eyes my fingers,
as they wait to find the next idea.

The weight of an idea leaves a mark
on my memory nodding the rhythm

of evening’s sigh, Nodding the rhythm
of words lost in my head. Stray marks cross

and sing out to words lost in night’s quiet.
As fingers whisper to an empty room.

In an empty room sits a woman.
What am I writing about tonight?

 

 

Summers spent in swimming pools

Summers spent in swimming pools
with bright turquoise sides and bottoms.

Legs dangling treading water
while we girls moved about in circles

Heads bobbing and voices laughing
there was nothing more to do

Standing at the snack bar we choose
candy – Sugar Babies, Necco Wafers in sherbert colors

Skin felt parched from sun and chlorine
feet puckered soft against concrete surfaces

Summers spent in swimming pools
nothing more to do

The lawnmower

My papa Hymie lived across the street
on a large lot –
a deep lawn ran to the street.
In the fall he ate with my grandma Lillie out back
in the Sukkah.

My papa kept a riding lawn mower in the carport
for maintaining the large lawn.
He added a pair of seats to the lawn mower.
A few neatly cut boards, foam cushions covered in terry cloth –
no doubt my grandma’s addition,
and flimsy plastic belts to secure us.

On Sundays my papa walked across the street to get my brother and me.
In his carport he helped us climb into the seats and fastened the seat belts.
Our legs hung down in the space to the side of my papa’s seat.

We rode around town on that lawn mower with my papa
to the Daitch’s, to the Rubnitz’s –
to visit my papa’s friends, and maybe to show my brother and me off.

Under the cabinet

We opened the cabinet under the laundry room sink.
Never even wondered why we were in there doing this.
Angie reached in the cabinet and pulled out a six pack of beer.
One by one, she emptied the contents of each can.
Down the drain the strong smelling golden liquid poured

Some years later my mother shared a story with me.
Angie used to call Mrs. Thompson to pick her and her sister up.
Angie and her sister would stand at the street til
Mrs. Thompson drove up.
Angie called Mrs. Thompson when they found their dad drunk.

Later I heard Angie’s mom divorced her dad.
She still works at the bank.
I asked what happened to him,
but Mom didn’t know.

Looking back, I did wonder why we were in there.

a month of writing poetry

I spent the month of April writing poetry
one a day, everyday a commitment fulfilled in a time of uncertainty
I sat down and committed words to the page

a time when it feels that little has been done
we have been patient

we had years to know the numbers of dead from Vietnam
we have had days to know greater numbers of dead from this virus