Crocodylus concordia

the Concord River though not the Nile

carries many crocodiles, the revered

Concord River crocodile, Crocodylus

concordia, so dark brown as to be called

black & ridged with shiny turtles — red

sliders — so unlike the rubbled matte

snapper inching down a driveway

across the road from its home swamp

Faberge riverside glutted with sun-

sparkled greens, river water laced with

water lily, fanwort, bumps that might

be turtles, but no, the bumps are crowns

of baby crocs, lurking floaters ‘til grown

past boat length, slick with weed

feeders on water strider & damselfly

dangling fingers, toad & frog fry

homes along the banks anticipate

the flood — rising water, civil war

evolving virus as well as predatory

Crocodylus — the newly warmed world

celebrates a spreading mesh of feral

DNA — the running amok of life

cleansed of Homo strain, guaranteed

planet earth life après les régimes

First Death

fourth grade, a name — Hugh? — a small boy

the teacher said he died of a weak heart

I pictured a white shirt, a pale featureless face

he’d been absent so often I remembered

nothing much, a moving shape, & no one

not a single fourth grader mourned him

we didn’t know what grief was — oh, perhaps 

some knew it, but not for this small

gone-away-forever boy — we moved on

would it have been long-division? or coloring

maps of far away countries? green for forests

yellow for growing grain, pale brown for sand

where camels plodded past dunes — the priest

came three times a week to read the next

chapter of Narnia books, the frightened

yet brave children, the stern lion — the priest

never explained how lions & witches

taught us religion, we thought him

dangerously peculiar, & we worried

he’d be taken away before the children

made it home, instead, the school year

ended, I found the books at the library

read to the end & then back to the beginning

& back to the end again, fifth grade brought

a different priest, in fifth grade no one died

Unmade

the cat parks on my bed every morning, dares me

to try & make it, what’s it to him if sheets are untucked

twisted & tossed, the blanket crumpled, pillows strewn

I pass & repass his steady glare, sometimes hours pass

before he feels the urge to move, by then I may be

otherwise engaged, well into my day, my chore forgotten

evenings, when I’m too worn down to retuck corners

snap away wrinkles, he eases into the tangle with me

lithe unknowable familiar, he curls into my armpit, purrs

against my cheek, nips my wrist, nothing but grip

& release, not like the early days when those bites

drew blood — his are urgent needs — my palm

cups his head, fingers rake his neck, both hands

gloss the silken run of his back, he purrs, he nudges

& paws, bares his nape to mine, flexes his claws

Ceramics

at Greg’s antique shop, dark-skinned men

swagged, corded, buttoned into brightly

colored uniforms stand erect, on duty

other dark-skinned men, turbaned, sit

crosslegged, brightly lit under lamp shades

if I spent money like I shake salt, I would pay

whatever Greg asked to bring them home

lay them out, smash them to smithereens

Welcome the World

at my hip the cat purrs, paws curled, fur like velvet

the stairs need another coat of paint

I forget to check for ticks before my shower

rain today, every other day rain

my dresser & clothes smell of mold

roar & swish of passing cars & trucks

distant train horn, not the Vermonter, too early

click, click, a bird, barely heard

underneath all the sizzle & hiss of the stream

last year dry from May to September

time passes, I paint the stairs

while the door stands open to allow me

to paint the bottom steps

not a single cat runs up them

noisy sun, quiet clouds

quieter rock piles hide in the wildflowers

how might rocks & flowers play together?

of course when I open the staircase door

barely an hour after I finish painting

to look at the pale green stairs

one cat runs up, so I run up to grab the cat

our footprints now part of history

the rocks & flowers play outdoors

without my interference