(1) The Milky Way. Not a photograph or a video or even a candy bar. The Milky Way.
(2) An afternoon of distant thunder without the nuisance of lightning or rain.
(3) Autumn at its peak, and I don’t mean a few leaves or a photo or video. I’m referring to the whole of New England.
(4) The color periwinkle from the 1980s, and Miró yellow from the early ’70s. And while I’m at it, the 1970s and the 1980s.
(5) A jar of Tang.
When my husband wakes,
he has rogue curls bent
from the night folding and
creasing them into origami cranes.
Each morning, I can’t help myself.
As birds circle his head, I try to
tame them by running my hands
through his flocks though I know
they won’t settle until he showers.
His curls are long now, stumbling
over themselves in soft repeating
collisions as he moves in bed.
Come morning, Great Herons flying!
So I’m twirling my spaghetti
only the twirling shows no
signs of stopping.
People at tables next to ours
laugh nervously and smile
because the entire plate of
spaghetti is on my fork now
and there’s no retreating.
Sanity holds no sway. I reach
for the parmesan cheese
because clearly the situation
calls for more food albeit
sprinkled food. It’s time. I
attempt to lift the weight
of Manhattan and its Burroughs.
I lean in, but this, this forkful
of snake in the grass takes a
nosedive for my white shirt.
I’m now the victim of a hit and run
by means of marinara and floppy
Nearby tables pirouette in every
direction not mine. Burroughs
fall to the floor.
At the party, the room was smoke.
I never got his name. No eye contact.
Visibility – one couch.
Literally bumped into him in the cafeteria.
Earthquake – the epicenter.
He asked me to meet him at the library.
Heartbeat – one twenty.
We didn’t study. We blossomed.
Thirst – unquenchable.
I’m on my fifth trip today
down the cereal aisle.
I have come to realize that
in the USA, every man, woman
and child manufactures cereal
and sells through my grocery.
I turn my cart around and go
back to begin my search again.
It appears I am now lost in the
Bermuda Triangle of the store.
A grocery clerk asks if there is
anything he can do to help.
I reply, “Pray.” He laughs a sly
laugh and disappears, never to
be heard from anywhere again.
Concerned that this is loitering,
I grab anything and make a
triumphant giddy dash for the
tomato paste. Now that I’m back
on terra firma, it appears the
writing on my cereal box of least
resistance is hieroglyphics. But
I’m wagering it’s cereal and believe
I’m on a roll! Angels sing!
I purchased one orange
today at the grocery.
Barely got it in the house
and it became thirst for juice.
Didn’t even have
time to make tea. I was
spritzing high and low
like I was selling perfume
in a department store.
Got myself in the eye.
I came, I saw, I went to
take a shower. Night is here.
I’ve squeegeed the kitchen.
If the scent lingers beyond
this week, I’m remodeling.
Now I’m skittish about the pears.
Yeah, I’ve got issues.
When you left on Tuesday last – how the year of missing you began! Every night, my cold feet in bed begged to be warmed by yours. And our baby, not yet conceived…well, it cried all day and all night! As if we were married, your mother called to complain about everything when there was nothing to complain about except that you had become mine. A well meaning friend – Julie, called upset asking how is she supposed to finish a song when the baby burps unmercifully through the chorus? And just like that, I drive to the airport looking for your embrace, and you’re there – eyes smiling “I love you.” When you say, “Let’s go home and make love,” I have to ask, “Have we met?” Such an interminable year since you left on Tuesday last.