248 Family poems

Before balance, before counting, before The record glistens and the needle slides, Grating, into the overture, there is the end Of weight, the leaning into nothing and then A caught breath, the record listens, the needle slides Over slowly, and all at once around us a woman’s voice Stretches weightless, leaning into nothing. Like a clothesline, the taut chorus: oh, hilarious Oh baby, all around us, over slowly, a woman’s voice Gathers above the pick me up, pick me up And the desperate put, put me down. First the tightrope, Then the light foot, and the taunting chorus Pick me up, pick me up. Oh, oh baby. The slippery floor shimmers and spins like a record while The light is swinging footloose on its rope Out of time. The shadows Slip, shimmering black, and spin across the floor, Then turn back and pick up again. Oh seedpod stuck for just One moment on the cattail, out of time, out of shadows, Downy cheek against a beard: oh scratches On the record, oh baby, oh measure Oh strange balance that grips us On this side of the world.

I had eight birds hatcht in one nest, Four Cocks were there, and Hens the rest. I nurst them up with pain and care, No cost nor labour did I spare Till at the last they felt their wing, Mounted the Trees and learned to sing. Chief of the Brood then took his flight To Regions far and left me quite. My mournful chirps I after send Till he return, or I do end. Leave not thy nest, thy Dame and Sire, Fly back and sing amidst this Quire. My second bird did take her flight And with her mate flew out of sight. Southward they both their course did bend, And Seasons twain they there did spend, Till after blown by Southern gales They Norward steer’d with filled sails. A prettier bird was no where seen, Along the Beach, among the treen. I have a third of colour white On whom I plac’d no small delight, Coupled with mate loving and true, Hath also bid her Dame adieu. And where Aurora first appears, She now hath percht to spend her years. One to the Academy flew To chat among that learned crew. Ambition moves still in his breast That he might chant above the rest, Striving for more than to do well, That nightingales he might excell. My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone, Is ‘mongst the shrubs and bushes flown And as his wings increase in strength On higher boughs he’ll perch at length. My other three still with me nest Until they’re grown, then as the rest, Or here or there, they’ll take their flight, As is ordain’d, so shall they light. If birds could weep, then would my tears Let others know what are my fears Lest this my brood some harm should catch And be surpris’d for want of watch Whilst pecking corn and void of care They fall un’wares in Fowler’s snare; Or whilst on trees they sit and sing Some untoward boy at them do fling, Or whilst allur’d with bell and glass The net be spread and caught, alas; Or lest by Lime-twigs they be foil’d; Or by some greedy hawks be spoil’d. O would, my young, ye saw my breast And knew what thoughts there sadly rest. Great was my pain when I you bred, Great was my care when I you fed. Long did I keep you soft and warm And with my wings kept off all harm. My cares are more, and fears, than ever, My throbs such now as ‘fore were never. Alas, my birds, you wisdom want Of perils you are ignorant. Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight, Sore accidents on you may light. O to your safety have an eye, So happy may you live and die. Mean while, my days in tunes I’ll spend Till my weak lays with me shall end. In shady woods I’ll sit and sing And things that past, to mind I’ll bring. Once young and pleasant, as are you, But former toys (no joys) adieu! My age I will not once lament But sing, my time so near is spent, And from the top bough take my flight Into a country beyond sight Where old ones instantly grow young And there with seraphims set song. No seasons cold, nor storms they see But spring lasts to eternity. When each of you shall in your nest Among your young ones take your rest, In chirping languages oft them tell You had a Dame that lov’d you well, That did what could be done for young And nurst you up till you were strong And ‘fore she once would let you fly She shew'd you joy and misery, Taught what was good, and what was ill, What would save life, and what would kill. Thus gone, amongst you I may live, And dead, yet speak and counsel give. Farewell, my birds, farewell, adieu, I happy am, if well with you.

for Adam And I didn't see that now you were here on the page writing poems too: poems silken with blue, fortified with a metaphor passing through. But I knew this speaker was you and knew there was so much about you that could reach around the metaphor to a personal etymology, one that could brighten and darken the poem without too many over-determined moves. But if you, speaker, need figures—more than language— who bless the poem's grief with vantage points or an altitude high up, or bandages soaked in vinegar, sure, then let the speaker invent a mirage, I understand that, too. It's tough these days when anxiety speaks through the fission of thought; it's the piss-pot of the mind. What anchors the fisted pronoun "we" in your poem? Something must. And another thing, upon second read, only now do I see how the "you" and "I" of someone else's poem landed in yours: on that particular cited greenery. And these other pronouns know—ahead of time- to check the soles of their shoes and how to manage a homonym's feet; moreover, they told you, speaker, how to open and shut the door without too much invention or conviction, which in a poem is rare.

The dove-white gulls on the wet lawn in Washington Square in the early morning fog each a little ghost in the gloaming Souls transmigrated maybe from Hudson’s shrouded shores across all the silent years— Which one’s my maybe mafioso father in his so white suit and black shoes in his real estate office Forty-second Street or at the front table wherever he went— Which my dear lost mother with faded smile locked away from me in time— Which my big brother Charley selling switching-signals all his life on the New York Central— And which good guy brother Clem sweating in Sing Sing’s darkest offices deputy-warden thirty years watching executions in the wooden armchair (with leather straps and black hood) He too gone mad with it in the end— And which my nearest brother Harry still kindest and dearest in a far suburb— I see them now all turn to me at last gull-eyed in the white dawn about to call to me across the silent grass

My brother is still alive and living In Fresno. All day he stares at the dead bodies Of automobiles In his garage. It isn’t a prison He’d wish himself free of. I visit him, Dragging my boxes Of books and awards Behind me. We are walking out of the city Into the white flame of the desert. Not unlike the Desert Fathers walking out into Sinai. My brother carries his briefcase Loaded in icons and dollar bills. He is wearing Larry Levis’s shining Suit and black leather boots. I am wearing a pale gown Of sun-bleached flowers. We are talking About the Resurrection. We are walking dead Into it Leaving the world and its sweet chorus Of horrors behind. There is no city But the city within. No door, but the door To simple wisdom. We walk, dumb As newborns Into the tremendous and endless Blessing.

Four weeks in, quarreling and far from home, we came to the loneliest place. A western railroad town. Remember? I left you at the campsite with greasy pans and told our children not to follow me. The dying light had made me desperate. I broke into a hobbled run, across tracks, past warehouses with sun-blanked windows to where a playground shone in a wooded clearing. Then I was swinging, out over treetops. I saw myself never going back, yet whatever breathed in the mute woods was not another life. The sun sank. I let the swing die, my toes scuffed earth, and I was rocked into remembrance of the girl who had dreamed the life I had. Through night, dark at the root, I returned to it.

Today my son realized someone’s smarter than him. Not me or his mom — he still thinks we know everything — one of the other kids, Nathan. Making fun of him at the computer terminal for screwing up at the math game. Other kids laughing at him. Second grade. I’m never gonna be as smart as him, he says. I’m never gonna be as smart as half my students if we’re talking IQs. He doesn’t want me to explain. He wants me to acknowledge that he’s dumb. He’s lying in bed and taking his glasses off and on, trying to get them perfectly clean for the morning. I’m looking around his dark room for a joke or some decent words to lay on him. His eyes are glassy with almost-tears. Second grade. The world wants to call on him. I take his hand in mine.

Someone in an accent of seduction whispered salmon. Then someone filled a bucket up with sleep. Mermaidism in the Donnelly house was five sisters deep.

At IHOP, after the skinny brunette with a band-aid covering her hickey comes to whisk away burnt toast, Mom mentions Theresa, face brightening. She had a dream about her—80s flip hair, smooth complexion. I’ve been living in Tulsa for eighteen years, Theresa said. I understand. Even as I watched men lower her casket, I fantasized the witness protection program had resettled her. How funny we look, mother and daughter laughing over scrambled eggs, tears dripping onto bacon, hands hugging coffee mugs. For a moment Mom felt Theresa there. Such faith. Freshen your cup? the waitress asks me, poised to pour. Cloudy in the cold coffee, my reflection. I offer the mug.

(for my daughter) Composed in a shine of laughing, Monique brings in sacks of groceries, unloads them, straightens, and stretches her back. The child was a girl, the girl is a woman; the shift is subtle and absolute, worn like a gift. The woman, once girl once child, now is deft in her ease, is door to the forum, is cutter of keys. In space that her torque and lift have prefigured and set free between her mother and her child the woman stands having emptied her hands.