a bunch of poems for today, July 18, 2009

We are in the habit of believing certain things


Each morning the woman watches herself sideways in the mirror. She is trying to decide if she is deep or fat. If she catches the right angle she can see the shallow (or thin) girl she once was. In her eyes, she still sees the surprise of that time she realized that stabbing pain was her own flesh tearing. And the blood after, on the sheet. She can see the medicine balls of each son as she carried— the blue topographical map of stretch marks running from breasts to hips— the years of anger and regret for all that would not change and all that had to. She places her palms on the apron of flesh left by her hysterectomy and lifts it, pressing everything back into place. She tells herself she’s going to be herself again. Someday. Really.



Not Giving It A Name

Pressed to name it
he might say Myra,
for the bitterness he felt.
But he wasn’t asked,
and he couldn’t give a name
without a shudder for the shape
of his own affection—
its weak-kneed urges,
her pink and black lipped mouth clamped shut.
It was better this way, her being
just the animal he would eventually be made to give up.


The Going Out

The boy has packed his case;
two pairs of trousers, two white shirts, three pairs
of under-shorts. He’ll carry his winter coat
even though it’s June in Galway.
He’ll wear his shoes though they don’t really fit.
He’ll carry his comb in his back pocket
and his papers in the pocket on his breast.
No one will see him off,
mother can’t stop herself from weeping
and da has to get the livestock fed.
The priest has blessed him.
The neighbors have raised a glass.
The sky sways on the surface of the harbor
the way his heart tilts and shimmers
between fear and longing;
the little lamb of madness,
the grand big earth—