Assignment 12

This was supposed to be a poem telling a true story in ordinary language:
                   Fate
I think of that night a lot;
Mostly in flashes.
The scene of us at that table bursts into my mind,
Illuminated by the spotlight I shine retrospectively.
I was sick that day—
Sick enough that I almost skipped one of my jobs,
But didn’t.
I got home, exhausted, and saw his message.
An old friend,
Old flame,
Old fling.
He was back in town,
And I dragged myself to the bar,
Through the sharp December night.
Worrying that I didn’t look pretty enough,
Wondering how I would feel to see him again.
The bar was dark and shadowy,
And he had brought a friend.
We spent time catching up,
Eagerly talking, almost flirting—
His charm sliding off me like oversized clothes.
My attention turned to his friend,
And time stopped.
He was real, and smart, and solid.
Tall, blonde—
My husband.

Assignment 11

This was supposed to be an “I remember” poem.  He liked it, but says I need to tighten it up a bit…so I will!!!

               Lucia Beach Road


I remember running through the marshy field, next to the creek, scared to death of stepping in our version of quick sand, “honey pots.”

I remember the smooth, sand-like dirt road leading to my house and the lake-sized pot holes which were such fun to maneuver on a bicycle.

I remember my cousin giving me a ride on her mini motorbike, which ended with the haunting guilt that I had somehow caused her broken leg.

I remember lying on the bottom bunk and thinking I should cry upon the news of my much older cousin’s death; instead I pictured him washing ashore, and the boat he had slipped from in the dark of night.

I remember building our treehouse, and the fear of falling I felt at following the older girls up the first time.

I remember cutting a hole in my favorite green corduroys and hastily telling my mom the new phrase I had learned, “I did it on purpose.”

I remember the endless procession of beautiful summer days on which we, her 4 youngest granddaughters, would burst through her screen door and recite our favorite line, “Grammie, whadda you have to eat?”

I remember that it was always Kool Aid and something from Hostess.

I remember the pattern on her countertop, the cool clean feeling of her orderly house, bursting with knick knacks.

I remember the two attic bedrooms in that house, and the hours and hours of playing “college” up there.

I remember learning to spell “Afghanistan” in one of those deeply eaved rooms, and marveling over the number of afghans in my grandmother’s closet.

I remember the way the word “cousin” felt more like “sister”, and the slow dawning of a realization that it didn’t really mean the same to other people, that we were lucky.

I remember learning to ice skate, and the way the cold air sliced through my heavy layers and came out the other side, leaving me wondering why all the fuss.

I remember the Crab Girls, who picked out meat in the bleach-drenched fluorescent lit room in our basement.  

I remember their loud and misplaced laughter, and the wall of cooking crab that met my nose when I walked from that room to the one with the enormous black cooker.

I remember sorting crabs, and getting pinched; the big claws on a dark brown disc; my mother’s kind reminder that you must pick them up by the smallest leg.

I remember my fearless and gentle mother turning into a terrified and angry monster when that boy cousin ran toward her with snakes draping off him like streamers on a float.

I remember that harmless big grey house at the end of its long, straight driveway, perched in the middle of a field; and how fearfully we avoided it on Halloween and Girl Scout Cookie sales calls, somehow driven by a need for mystery in our quiet neighborhood.

I remember lying on our bellies, behind the short row of hedges and peering through binoculars, into the window of the neighbors across the street. I looked so hard for the stock pot and wondered how I could be missing it, and what the undertone of excitement and urgency was from the older kids.

I remember the quietness of that narrow, winding street, and how it was shattered by a plane crash once, a car crash twice.  

I remember riding our bikes to the tiny airport because it had vending machines, and was much closer than any store—our plan for evading kidnappers firmly in place.

I remember wishing I could live in a place with sidewalks and neighbors, like the kids on TV.

I remember sitting on the school bus, and singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” into the fogged up window, as we rounded the corner to cross the river, and thinking I might know something about Love at 6 years old.

I remember falling asleep on the top bunk, with a little silver ring with a puppy on it, securely on my finger and how I ached for it for days afterward when I woke to find it missing.

I remember the woods behind my school; that little alcove-like clearing, the delicate pink lady slipper growing in the shade of a mossy rock, and the tingly reverence I felt for that flower knowing it was illegal to pick one.