This first piece was inspired by an article in Mother Earth News about how to preserve onions. One way is to put them into the legs of pantyhose and tie a know between each one so they don't touch, because the point of touch is where the decay begins. This seemed like an appropriate piece to post since we are not supposed to touch each other while in isolation...
SELF PRESERVATION
(previously published in POEMS-FOR-ALL)
So, we live our lives in the dark, like onions
stored in the seamless legs of last season’s pantyhose,
held together by flimsy knitted skins, held apart by excuses
and knots, no individual ever really touching another.
With only these navels in between, don’t think
I haven’t seen behind your finely tempered mind
all the way down to the cellar where you hang your ideas.
All those dangling, mangled limbs, nothing more
than lumps and clots lackadaisically waiting for some
vegetable to come along and brush up against them,
making the whole onion infantry swing into step
like muffled chimes, surrounded by cabbages,
sworn to secrecy, never telling the bulbs that the battle’s lost,
and that no one’s marching anywhere except closer to decay.
I. THE SOUND OF LIGHT
Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.
When the sun
drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
albeit institutionally, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.
Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.
This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster. I try not to think
about crossing the street tomorrow,
about how I must anticipate the cars
rounding the corner, too fast,
forcing me to listen for their approach,
hoping they will see me,
wanting to walk slow enough
to force them to brake,
never fully trusting
that the flare of their lights
will appear in time.
II. LIVING IN THE TWENTY
Just last Monday
I was wondering whatever happened
to Steven Jackson…
called himself Spiderman…
“Best friend a Spider could have…”
he wrote in my yearbook.
Then Thursday
(why is it always Thursday?)
in the obituaries,
“Steven Jackson,
loved by his family…”
And I started to wonder about living
in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone.
Maybe living here
near the school
has slowed my life
to the point that I am able
to drift from the past
into the future and back,
where I am able to see
more comings and goings.
If I really believe, will I slip back,
back to the time before
remembering…
I have been told I was enthralled
at an early age with the Taj Mahal.
And perhaps, in my not-so-special
pale-girl-way, I somehow stumbled
upon the essence of an Eastern mystic cult…
And I can’t help but wonder,
if I am still enough,
will you come and touch me?
If I can stay in this moment only,
will you try to convince me
I was never alone?
I am waiting for a message.
Until then, I have a jewel glued on my forehead
and I am learning to wrap a sari.
III. THE DISTANCE BETWEEN
No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down.
As I walked back to work,
as I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze,
angling, sly and sluggish,
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.
I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup,
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I abruptly witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party,
still tied to the table’s umbrella,
all exploded in the same second--
silent through the pane.
Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, would you look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance?
Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right,
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.
Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.
HOW TO GO ABOUT UNDERSTANDING
WITHOUT STEPPING ON IT DIRECTLY
(previously published in Autumn Sky Poetry)
I remember developing breasts,
(it was the same year the Russians launched Sputnik)
and going with my aunt to buy my first fully-trained bra,
and learning from the lady at Tots-to-Teens
how important it would be someday
to bend over at the waist when I put it on
and the first time I bent over.
I remember learning that there were men in the world
who wanted to teach me about the men in the world,
and how the faint strong smell of bleach
tinted my sheets last week after I washed the colors
with the whites and left them on the line to dry
bleeding happily all together.
I don’t remember learning I would die,
but it must have been like stepping casually
into a freshly laundered dream,
like stepping into a white tulip skirt
trimmed round the hem
with crimson quatrefoils and tears.
I wonder if I cried,
and when the flowers will start to bleed.
TEARING ALONG THESE DOTTED LINES
(previously published in Halfway Down the Stairs)
Deliberately and exactly,
when I dream of satisfaction, it fills me
as completely as an airbag fills the space
between the dreamer's face and a disastrous dash.
Just last night I dreamt seduction.
Behind my eyes the swirling cavity
was packed with words, with blazing
actions and intentions, lines and spaces
specked with half-notes destined never to be sound.
When at last the music woke me,
I was succinctly bound
between approaching traffic
and the blaring horns of diving maidens.
I note the beat, the vague instructions
you have given me to play this fugue:
More finite than amorphous masses,
less definite than round.
If you are really into the analysis of the written word, you might like this blog post of mine from three years ago. https://cherylhicks.weebly.com/blog/a-matter-of-style