last day of september poem

The lucidity of rain

And now the rains have come.

Every time we step outside,

the sky sobs.

Walking from the restaurant to the car,

rain spills down your jacket

and into the pockets of your jeans.

And I, carrying a sensitivity especially sharp
after the second glass of wine,

feel envious of the lucidity of rain.

How clever, the unruliness of this world.

For hours after you leave, your pockets

will remain damp, but not soiled.

A way to hold on

only water knows. 

for C

at night, with you

I grow another set of legs.

Arms. A second pair of lungs.

Larger, I can do anything better.

My new heart—it pulses

against an old shoulder blade,

telling last hurt something

spectacular, like:

How do I keep you.

Morning brings several

amputations. Whose hands

am I left with? Mine or yours? 

Rain

by Raymond Carver

Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

december

I am twenty-five and I’ve moved

back in with my parents

My father follows me around

the house, turning off lights.

Tonight he is organizing things

in jars: pine cones of varying sizes,

wooden spools of thread, antique

buttons, clear marbles and pieces

of shell. When I was a girl we

scoured beaches for agates, pumice,

and smooth flat rocks. Driftwood

shaped like the spread wings

of geese. Anything we could see through.

Now the shelves where I sleep

are lined with jars. Wheat pennies

and wine bottle corks. Fourth of July

buttons, and the rubber wheels

of Matchbox cars.  I am fond

of the small celluloid cows

and sheep. I know how it hurts

to lose.  Save everything.

Part two

during the summer i was most happy

twice i was afraid. once

swimming in the canyon falls

and once when we went too

far into the mountain basin

and the trail stopped just as

the clouds darkened. all day

i had only seen two ravens,

one hawk. we had to scale

back up the rock face

we climbed down.

but       so often my sadness

is a type of fear         and

paired with my fear of water,

paired with my dread of heights,

paired with my anxiety of omens

in the form of birds

there too           stood my sadness,

at the thought of losing you.

Poems about Leaving, Part One

Driving through Montana After the Wedding

Already I miss my friends-

having spent three full days

together, drinking, eating,

dancing, laughing. 

Full with the glad warmth

of watching the first of us wed,

we were surprised to find

the high desert cold at night.

So we slept stomach 

to back on pull-out beds. 

And now the golden hills

of Montana with the shadows

of clouds, and the wind

forever moving them around.

i love the last stanza

Self Portrait as a Meadow

by Linda Norton

There is a chair

the heart of which

is wooden

split five ways

and grass pressed flat

where we kissed

where others later kissed

on the same mattress

and solemn nothing

happening under a canopy—

Have you forgotten me?

I will go down wonderfully

as was told in proverbs

though for a long time I thought

I should not go.

Here are things that have

no Latin names

or none

that men would know.