POA

POA: Problem of Affluence. Not all, but most of the problems we working class have in this country are POA's. My recent POA's are:
*jeans fit a bit too tight (read on)
*eating too much
*Thanksgiving mashed potatoes were a bit too watery
*car needs an oil change (read on)
*don't want to take the time to do it
*don't want Thanksgiving vacation to be over (read on)
*don't want to go back to work
*spent too much money in October and November
*battery on laptop not working like it should
*can't resist Starbucks eggnog latte, pumpkin spice latte, peppermint mocha
*jeans fit a bit too tight (read on)
*love those vente total fat, total sugar, total caffeine holiday-flavored coffee forty-days of temptation drinks

Photographs: Aaron and Rachel, August 4, 2007

Between the photographs on the wall
are spaces waiting.
Photographs in black and white
of great grandfathers and great grandmothers.
And these are their faces
in the years of their becoming
parents, grandparents, great grandparents
and then memories beloved
by their children
and their children’s children
and by you.
Grandparents fill their own spaces
on the wall in their years of becoming,
and parents theirs.
And if you look closely at these images
you see the love
that comes to you
laced delicately
in family
lacing family--
lacing family
family
family.
Between the photographs on the wall
are spaces waiting.
These are your spaces.
Now your years
of becoming
have come.

Hot Chocolate

That our father knew cocoa
seeped into our knowing
as quietly as sitting
on laps. The bow
at his back from a mother's
apron anchoring his spot
at the stove; the cocoa
yielding to his spoon
as to a sermon. And he
taught us cocoa: "Never stop
stirring" and "Add a dash
of salt": the first as easy
as wanting toys;
the second as hard
as grief. On my father's
eightieth birthday, my aunt
spoke of jobs divided when
our unknown grandfather
abandonned the family.
My father's job--cocoa. "Keep
stirring" and "Add a dash
of salt" learned with long
division and the necessity
of a bitter New England
winter milk route.
A few coins, endurance,
free bottles of milk.
Cocoa
never came so dear.

Praise

To my grandmother who walked
in shoes with heels like
pedestals, Roman column
solid, brown as nutmeg
and cloves folded in
pumpkin batter; each
a clumping announcement
of her arrival; each laced
high through eyelets to stockings
you could see her legs through.

To her name, its ancient
stock. Gertrude. Wrapping
her baby daughter in it
as in an heirloom quilt.
They called her Fairy--
a name so evanescent
Sleepytime Town lifted
her away forever
on an April afternoon.

To my grandmother's years,
her annual steps, walking
on and holding on for all
of us with children we
think we cannot live without.

To my mother remembering
in Trudy. Gertrude. My
sister in sandals, the keeper
of grandmother's book: Fairy's
poems and school pictures
and favorite songs. Praise to
her, too, this keeper of a name,
polishing its sturdiness;
walking with grandmothers
and mothers as if on
pedestals; lacing a family
you can see her heart through.
-for Trudy

Ordinariness

three loads of laundry--ours
three eggs scrambled--two his, one mine
two classes taught--his
three chapters edited--mine
two episodes of MI5 tonight--ours
two hamburgers--ours
one onion rings--half his, half mine
one fries--half mine, half his
two iced teas--ours
thirty-two years--ours
more--ours and ours and ours

Waiting

Dinner out the night before what could be the day when everything changes. Green salad, salmon, spaghetti squash, the cool sip of water I had before you offered me your last bite of squash because I loved it so much. A memory, or more.

Monday After Writing Well

Writing well is the highest high in the world. It's not iced tea and a good book on a long afternoon. And it's not a never-seen episode of MI5 on a chilly night with my husband. They're easy. Writing well isn't. Working the words is exhilerating when the words are working; excruciating when they aren't. It's not like torture and it's not like grief. It's like a down-pulling, heavy gravity drawing down feeling, an ennui, a damned 'ole dammed up clump of mediocrity. It makes me tired. It makes me stand up and walk away. It makes me juiceless. Oh...and I hate sitting back down again with the old seat-of-the-pants determination, the old gung-ho grit, the old truth that if I don't feed the word gal, she won't feed me. The muse. I love her with my whole life. That old word gal.

A Bit More of a Start

Ten hours later.
Two new chairs.
Blue chairs.
Old chairs in garage
Arms broken.
We're sitting in lucky.
Two new chairs.

Getting Started

Will I ever stop deleting what I write in this space?