My Apologies

The ducks of this weather

are stony. By afternoon

the lake disappears

like swans on the wing.

Someone kind

left apples and pecans

for winter’s varied thrush

and the orange of his belly

alarms me.

Finally I have allowed myself

solitude, only to find

it does not suit me.

I watch birds with ruffed

feathers and recall the white

of my thighs when

we made love by the river.

Of course I miss you.

Isn’t that my body

remembering my body?

Choices

By Tess Gallagher

 

I go to the mountain side

of the house to cut saplings,

and clear a view to snow

on the mountain. But when I look up,

saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in

the uppermost branches.

I don’t cut that one.

I don’t cut the others either.

Suddenly, in every tree,   

an unseen nest

where a mountain   

would be.

. saturday poem written for a sunday

the undergrowth

Sometimes my small sadness,

wound tight in my chest all week,

uncurls itself like a fern frond

and finds the forest lonely.

What’s the rule for sadness,

when there is nothing planned

for dinner, when the chemo’s

made her sleep all day, when

the ships come in with someone

else’s package.

How long do you let it grow?

I used to run down the gully

to hide among the undergrowth

and listen for the night owl’s

hollow call, the coyote. 

My heart was full of fear

and want and greed. I did not

yet know who I would be, or who

I would love, or who would be

taken from me and how.

I only knew the sound of my

father’s whistle, when he grew 

worried and wished for me 

to come back.

When it grows, my grief

is so lonely—

you’re not there.

Whistle and I will let it ease,

whistle and I will come back.

November, November

things I do not recall lending out

What happened to my love of birds.

Here, brushy woods, marsh and bay.

Insect, crustacean. But what happened

to morning? The call of towhee,

the hooded merganser of long runs?

Here is my boot, my pencil. Take alder, 
birch, the forest edge. Leave scattered 
savanna. Here, I am just waking. 
Where are your hands going,

as they move down my back?

October goes too quickly

how to be happy 

Why not sleep heavy through the night

like a child. Why not let myself be mad.

Last night in the bar, my first love’s father

was married. The bride wore slippers.

Why not laugh while crying, as the baby

did twice before he screamed.

Why not try self discovery which is not

the same as loneliness. Why not give

in. Why not sleep heavy through the night

on my stomach, cheeks flush, palms

on the pillow to catch my dream fall.

happy sunday

all the different things you can mistake for a bird

 

Now the trees are a burnt sienna.

As songbirds move north over the city

you return from a trip east with your arms  

full of tomatoes, a new shirt. I am discerning.

The tomato was once said to be noxious

for leaves akin to deadly nightshade.

I don’t blame anyone-- even tonight

there are storm clouds on the radar

while the ground is dry as bone. 

I don’t care whether you see a cloud 

or a flock of birds: when you look at the sky

I see the underside of your chin.

We learn migratory birds burn muscle

for water during flight, not fat, and it is only

the leaves of tomatoes that can kill you.

Look how knowledge doesn’t expand, it

changes. When we met you were wearing

a different shirt, the trees were an asparagus

green, and I was with another man.

Tell me, what will you cook with your tomatoes?