A Mess Close Up

I’d rather stay in bed,
where I’ve grown comfortable
with the thread count and the constellation
of cracks above me on my ceiling.
Where I can stroke my cat—a familiar
repetition—her left cheek, then right,
chin and crown, one long glide
to rump. Begin again.

Petted into bliss, she sleeps
while I count the exact number
of steps to reach the bathroom—
12, then confirm the number
of seconds it takes cold water
to rush hot—33, before I can
relish the purity of soap, the clean
lather of the word anti-bacterial.

Retracing my steps to bed,
I study the carpet with its many fibers,
those relentless combs for body bits
and hairs. It’s a struggle not
to vacuum, back out, leave
the carpet virgin with its rows
of alternating bands.

My home is a mess, close up,
full of pictures that need straightening,
fringe that needs untangling,
containers that need rearranging,
and so, so ripe with germs.

Too soon it’s 4 a.m., easier to rise,
give in to the dust and scrub,
than to lie here and not dream,
yet dream about it.

Letter Addressed to Occupant

One like so many others littering
the coffee table that day. And all
the lonely days of junk mail since,
stacked and stuffed among spines
along the shelf where a girl—a trace
of myself I left behind to linger—
hovers near my father in the family
room where he died years ago.

The current occupant, a widow
who has lived and tucked for years
since her husband passed, too afraid to lose
anything more. The girl must be tired
of this widow and her clutter, and so
I compose a letter in loose cursive,
loops she was just learning to float
between even, blue lines. I tell how
I want her with me, how I picture her
whispering, Why can’t that old lady
see us here beside her books?

Our father is still, but still our father,
and she’ll be pleased at how easy it will be
for him to move on once she lets go.
I describe how it’s no accident his grave
lines up with the front yard. He only needs
to pull himself along the silver cord
suspended across the road, like a clothesline.

Pull himself over the bygone canal
into the graveyard, above the heads
of growling dogs, until he finds his plot—
middle section, five rows back. I hope
he won’t mind the untended grass,
the unknown settlers pressed-in close,
and that he sinks fast beneath the green.

I explain how at the station she can wait
in an orange scoop chair until her bus
is called, then sit way in back and watch
her palm disappear against the blue sky.
I swear to get there early, buy a stack
of magazines I’ll thumb but won’t read,

rising as the other passengers curl out
around me like petals. I promise to wait
until I see her sandaled feet descend the steps—
a girl, faded, like a vintage photograph,
with lighter hair wearing a floral sundress—
then run to her, praying to remember
as she soaks like rain into my pores.

The Opposite of Spoons

Foreheads touching, too soon
your air becomes mine. And I want it

to be enough, all I need to breathe.
Still, I push you to turn over, let

my hand linger on your bare shoulder.
I will myself to cover it but not before

fingering each bead in the rosary
of your spine. My guilt eased in bursts

of prayer timed to your every breath.
Atonement found in matching

my beat to yours—a rhythm I know
I’ll find effortless to keep,

once I roll over, curve back
until we barely touch, and sleep.