O the very fact that there are friends who write with their hands Even if just the forefingers hammering away on keyboards, and Also then print out the resulting muddle and scrawl and scribble And pop it in the postbox! The lickable areas on the envelopes! The Return Address Just in Case! The choice of stamps, and we All blessedly have friends who carefully choose their stamps, & Stand in line at the post office asking for the ones with Authors, Or members of the Simpson family, or stamps with Polar Bears! And the fact that there are fifty addresses in your memory, some Of them no longer inhabited by the people you loved to write to; Much like your mind retains past phone numbers and exchanges, Like Mayfair and Ludlow and Allegheny and Cypress and Tulip! And the fact that you can draw all morning on an envelope or by God paint it flagrantly with horses and angels, and your postman Will deliver it anyway! Probably grinning at the nut who mailed It to you! And you can put a few grains of sand inside your note, From the beach we went to as children, or a feather from a hawk Who glared in the window like an insurance adjuster with talons, Or a painting by a child, or a photograph of four of the names of That which we call God for lack of a better label. Even the folds Of the paper, and the paperness of the paper, and the fact that it’s All about miracles and affection, which is to say, of course, love! Sure it is. All the good parts are about love, in all its many masks.
Here’s my question. What if there was a poem That didn’t know what it was about until it got To the end of itself? So that the poet’s job isn’t To play with imagery and cadence and metrical Toys in order to make a point, but rather to just Keep going in order to find out that the poem is About how hard it is to watch your kids get hurt By things they can’t manage and you cannot fix. If I had been the boss of this poem I would have Made it so they can manage things, or I could be The quiet fixer I always wanted to be as a father; But that’s not what the poem wanted to be about, It turns out. This poem is just like your daughter: No one knows what’s going to happen, and there Will be pain, and you can’t fix everything, and it Hurts to watch, and you are terrified even as you Try to stay calm and cool and pretend to manage. Some poems you can leave when they thrash too Much but kids are not those sorts of poems. They Have to keep writing themselves, and it turns out You are not allowed to edit. You’re not in charge At all—a major bummer. I guess there’s a lesson Here about literature, about how you have to sing Without knowing the score . . . something like that. All you can do is sing wildly and hope it’ll finish So joyous and refreshing that you gape with awe.
Just spent four days with my mom and dad, Who together are hundred and eighty-four Years old, and there are so many wry funny Things to report, and some saddening things Also, like fragility, and the ravines that pain Cuts in faces after years of wincing. But I’ll Tell you just one: my dad at one point tosses A bag of bread from his seat at the oak table Onto the thin counter to his right. Maybe six Feet of air, and he didn’t glance at the target. A little flick of the wrist, and the bread lands Exactly right. This nailed me, but Pop didn’t Look up from the crossword puzzle. It could Easily be explained: former excellent tennis Player, knows the spatial music of the house In his bones, probably made that throw sixty Times, but still . . . the silent casual easy grace, The deft of it! He’s all bones now, he weighs Less than he did when he was a reed of a kid Away to the war they thought would kill him For sure, but when I hug him he’s still all tall Though some of the tall is bent. Look, I get it That someday he won’t be sitting at the table. I get it. Believe me, I have examined the idea. But that his deft won’t be there, his sideways Smile when I gawp at something he says; I’m Not quite getting that. He says he’d like to be Buried in a military cemetery in a deep forest About an hour away. There’s oak and cypress And pine. This will happen, I guess, and then He’ll be a thin kid again somehow or the most Deft of the falcon chicks or the willow branch That finally figures out how to sip from a lake All easy and casual, like it didn’t take practice.