the worm in the apple is the knowledge
that once, for a time, you worshipped me
how that set me apart, made me less real
more a mirage in the mind of a sad man
who’d had a great deal to drink, the mirror
of me worshipping you, an imaginary man
sitting across from me, distanced from me
by the white tablecloth, the green bottle
wine we’d both drunk to the lees — lees
that now unsettle me, a fibrous sediment
damp, dark red, smelling of fruit, of trees
I long to console my grandmother after
the death of her child, three-month-old
Lena, how swifly she goes from suckling
to choking, gasping, her fingers & face
blue
Grandma’s futile breasts ache
she doesn’t speak, the five children
sit where they’ve been told to sit
while Aunt Emily wraps the body
Grandpa says, “There, there,” to anyone
listening
no sooner the child buried
he comes to Grandma in the night
“No, no” she whispers, but nothing
she can say or do stops him, his
rights prevail, eight more times she
births his child
never again cares
the rift too wide, her world undone
mothering over, she pales away
older children raise the littler ones
one night you agree to go home with a guy
missing a tooth or two — he’s not someone
you work with, that’s one complication avoided
& who knows what his name is — you’ve drunk
rather more than usual despite knowing alcohol
doesn’t agree with you, facts you acknowledge
when you find yourself in a pickup weaving
down a narrow potholed driveway, facts
you acknowledge the full implications of
when in his water bed your head starts to spin
& you vomit, & vomit — that’s the end of that
you think, indeed, you remember nothing else
until morning when despite a mild recurrence
of nausea & no toothbrush, sigh, you agree
to join him in the shower — it’s not clean —
where you ask yourself why you’re naked
worse yet, sober, with no-name — oh well
a body’s a body, you do what you want to do
one by one, three, then four, the donkeys
shamble into town, linger at street corners
snuff choice blooms from flower beds
brightening the paths in the town square
someone owns the donkeys, or claims to
but he sets them loose to block roads
surprise & dismay tourists, nibble fruits
the produce sellers shout & rush to rescue
none wear straw hats or ribbon-braided
manes or tails, no, the donkeys are unkempt
are childhood, carnival, insolence, mayhem
nights, corralled under stars, they caterwaul
six years old
lights out
bedroom door closed
I lay in bed
plotting my father’s death
for hating us, for beating us
for keeping our mother
from kissing us goodnight
said we were too old for that
a terrorized household
no wonder I flinch
a stranger, a burglar
would climb through my window
I would convince him
my father had the money
I would show him
where & how to kill him
Go, do it now, I’d say
one day, drunk, he stepped off
the commuter train
before it stopped
was nearly
dragged under the train
shoe shredded, clothes torn
I wrung my hands
so close, so close
some people deserve to die
I’m not a killer
or am I?
rain drips from the eaves
a vine flowers, seed spreads
the chores I perform over & over
get dressed brush teeth wash dishes make bed
salvage give shelter hide hold
a center is of no use
adam, then eve — a gender theory
deep roots, a strangling vine
move along, move along as if it matters
I would be pleased not to feel guilty
I would rather not leave the chair
sat upon, cats upon
a third cat glides toward us
messenger angel
don’t pretend you can throw something away
& forget about it
anyone who puts a controlling hand on anyone
should stop
daisy . . . day’s eye
the rate of rain dropping from the eaves
a poem a net of words
thunder, silence, green
air a web the rain weaves through
the cat sits
& stares out at
the pouring rain
pungent earth
beads sparkle
on velvet green
daylily orange
black-eyed susans
yellow as sun
mice motor
between tufts
a groundhog
stands to nibble
tops of weeds
harmonizing
to phoebe, vireo
flicker, crow
the cat chitters
moans miaows
heaven, he muses
must be a world
where I’ll be
out there too
when I pluck a millipede from the porch floor
it curls to a tight ball, & I fling it
outside, where no doubt
it lands somewhere & eventually
(how long? how does its timer work?)
it uncurls & crawls away
exactly what will my behavior be
when something ten thousand times larger
plucks me up & flings me out?
since while this removal occurs
neither the millipede nor I speak
can any observer call either of us
a higher life form?
the groundhog, if she hurries away
when I edge closer to her
out in the meadow —
the phoebe, when she shelters
a second clutch of eggs
high in the rafters —
the leafed-out elms
branches like emerald platters
& a silken swish if wind
pushes them away —
lightning bugs in rain
can morph you from a body in bed
to a vessel reaching port, your sails ablaze
erase electronics from everyone’s hands
then watch us, how we stare down into our cupped
palms, how our thumbs & fingers tap at air
how all of us are emptied
unsynced, as alone in the world
as we were before devices, forced to wait
to find out what happens, to attend to the here
the present, to follow ourself
quiet, alone, far from the madding crowd
