Poetry

Poetry

Hive

Honeybees hum in the chimney
as they work, nothing deterring
them from their devotion to our home,
not smoke, chemicals, or beekeepers.

Forty years of honey stored
inside the brick flue for generations
unknown, all of it perfectly
packed into tiny compartments,

much like our own gathering
and storing, what we guard like
worker bees fanning the queen.
In a dream the chimney overflows

in summer heat, honey streaming
over the roof. Time to sort, to give
and throw away, I say, tossing
books, clothes, even money.

And still I awaken into disbelief—
my unimaginable abandonment.
O sweet world, your mornings of lips
and birdsong. The deep sleep of winter.

Moved

Life smooths us, perfects as does the river the stone,
and there is no place our Beloved is not flowing,
though the current’s force you may not like.
—St. Teresa of Ávila

This rounding roughs us even as it smooths,
the force of God’s water strong,
tumbles the small stones even as it soothes
and carries them lightly along,
The rain falls full and fills the streams.
The river drinks their love.
The trees bend heavy with dreams.
There’s nothing that does not move.

Borne along by fire and flood,
by wind that tongues and grooves,
our bodies brimmed with blood
that feeds us as it proves
perfection is no steady state.
It’s on the way and always late.

I’ve been held up

in traffic, like everyone, window down,
             exhaust and summer air wrinkling
             above I-94, crawling toward the Loop

by thrift stores anywhere along the way, she
             inside hunting cast-off cast iron, I
             at rest in a parking-lot novel

because of a worn-out hip joint, its new
             titanium step-twin taking two
             years to find the other’s stride

in love and loss, her breast cancer, my
             tears, her pale face vulnerable amid
             surgeons, percentages, fear

like the feel of a gun barrel back of my skull,
             one long-ago college night, masked
             men demanding money, drugs—all

of which, this warming March morning,
             makes each step along this sunlit side-
             walk light, light, sweet Godlit light

The farm wife repeats a lullaby

When Ruth cries out, terrified
by what stalks the root cellar
or chases her toward a cliff,
we sing our favorite chorus:

Vegetables grow in my garden,
God sends the rain,
Vegetables grow in my garden,
God sends the sun.

With each verse, we substitute
something new: carrots, potatoes,
rutabagas, coconuts. Like sheep
that leap a fence, we never stop

to reconsider: sunflowers,
snapdragons, poinsettia, burr
thistle. Rabbits wriggle in
and soon the gate swings open

for rhinoceros and pythons . . .
till we make room for everything
under the sun, under the rain,
in the garden

where Ruth can fall asleep.

The Feast of All Souls

       November 2

The dead visited this morning: sisters,
parents, aunts and uncles, old professors
and friends—faces so vivid they again
appeared in my room through memory’s lens.

Did families stage a yard sale later
in the Catholic cemetery on Common,
a table set up in the center, orange water
cooler in view? But I am mistaken.

It’s All Souls Day when people assemble
to clean the crumbling graves and to honor
their dead, whose remnant bones sometimes tumble
from ancient crypts, although their souls have soared

like skeins of starlings, whose sudden flight
in sunlight dyes wings a shimmer of white.