page 178

And Never Collide

All day long and all night long we have been arguing.
Which is to say, we have each found a good argument

to carry about the house. We're not willing to share.
Mine, at least, is far too beautiful to lose.

Also, it is heavy, but I can't put it down where
I might trip over it. I'm not willing to take that risk.

All day long and all night long we have been swimming
along the dark banks of this river. It is astonishing

how those small fish that carry light into the shadows
turn together, and turn together again, and never collide.

page 179

Poem For Dorothy

Dorothy calls to tell me she misses me still,
six months on; also, her daughter is dead.
She offers it thus, blunt and plain. So typical.
And I say the things people say.

Years ago, I thought I knew about grief.
My own daughter's coffin looked like an oversized shoebox,
tossed onto the back seat of the hearse—
shoes, possibly, for a clown.
That's what I thought, watching that box go down.

But Dorothy's telling me now about her son-in-law.
He won't take her calls. And I can just see him,
like a dark balloon, or possibly a cloud, set adrift in kitchens,
in supermarkets, PTA meetings—nudging along,
throwing long grey shadows this way, that ways, everywhere,
and shying away at the mere touch of a hand.

It's a hard way of sorrowing. Unless he's simply waiting
for some view to appear that he can bear to see.
Or else he may need exclusive rights. She's his sad scoop,
and grief's not an easy thing to own. It's secondary, chronic,
contagious; either it's kept under strict control
or else it's shared around, like the common cold.

page 180

Four Things I Wanted to Say to You

1.
Silence, there she is;
that old chaperone sitting
between us again.

2.
This bright pain that blooms
behind my door belongs to
you. I've kept it warm.

3.
Once upon a time
you wore the lives of your friends
like badges, you know.

4.
Your head, battleground
for so many. Who's there now
to cover the bones?