Author: Kay Foley

The sentinel node is clear.
Strange words that are, however,
happy, joyful ones to my ear.
All clear for take-off.
Clear as a bell.  A bell sounds
a time to celebrate
to re-imagine a life
to worry less, celebrate more
to be one who is elated
knowing that the wearing of hats
will be just because. Only and just.
I shall take cake to her house.

I.

A black cloud is lifted 
this time around and I
vow quietly to hold my
friend more closely
more gently
more reverently.
 
II.
A short talk in a long line with a woman I do not know
revealing the difficulties of her life:
the negative husband, the elderly mother.
We had a heart-to-heart just like that
and now she is dear to me, though I do not
have her name.  I am thankful once again
for the many gifts of my life.

Another hotel and nice enough.
I detect no funny smell.
No offending spots on the carpet.
I do not hear my neighbors through the walls.
The pictures are even lovely.
But the pillows are bad.
The pillows are quite bad.
Therefore All is ruined.
I wake again and again in the night
punch the pillow fruitlessly.
In the morning my neck aches.
Oh the pillows are quite bad.
 
I think fondly of sharing my pillow
at home with Miles of the curly black 
hair and the long eyelashes.
Miles Louis, who showers my face
with kisses upon waking.
My darling Miles. 
The over-sized miniature poodle.
I will be home in two more days.
He cannot know that
but I do.

Write me a story
one with an adventure and a bear
a forest the sea a mountain
a tale about the bravery of bees
the audacity of women strong
of limb wild of hair bare-breasted
hearts pumping fiercely
ever on and anon.
Long pithy passages of 
flood fire calamity great love 
leading finally to the heartbreaking 
conclusion every human seeks 
the one that cannot be 
told in words.

Suddenly appearing now in the dewy meadows are 
tightly woven spider’s webs stretched across the grass
in thick white patches to make tiny sparkly circus tents
for whomever frolics beneath.  At least, that is,
they appear to be spider’s webs though I never see
a spider and cannot guess who or why only now
in autumn and why smack out on top of the grass where
any old body might come walking along and wreck 
them pouf in an instant!  I do like that I only see them 
of a morning in the fall, that they appear now and only now 
and I, loving of presents and gifts, may receive them 
only now, as if it might be Christmas or my birthday and I 
do like that they are short-lived and you have 
to be of a certain type in order to notice them
which makes them, like the wildflowers, special,
as well as the one who notices.

Children call out as their small feet tap a 
merry tattoo down the street and off to school.
They sound happier at it than I was.
A dog barks in the distance.
When my boys were small they dressed
our dog in clothes and patient
as the moon he went along with it.
I miss the crazy antics of my boys who
now according to the calendar are
men.  But to me my boys.  Always.
Always and ever my own three boys.

How often can a person (I, this I)
write about the unadulterated joy of waking
in my own bed in this house (my own)
with these two curly dogs
one slight one sturdy
pressed upon this I
right there (here) in the bed
one head in my lap
one chin on my feet
the luxuriousness of which
relentlessly continues to 
bamboozle and cannot even
remotely be elucidated by me?
How often?
Perhaps as often as this I continue(s)
to go away and return home again
safe and sound and gladder than glad
just to return home to this house
(& this bed)
(& these two dogs)
(& the son who keeps them happy & safe)
(& sound).

Grey sky.
Chilly rain. Och.
Dismal day for any outdoor art show.
Lovely romantic day for
     writing poems
     baking chocolate chip cookies
     making a towering cake
     cooking a pot of beef bourguignon
     aye, talking like a pirate
     fashioning creatures from keys, beads and boxes
     daydreaming through a pile of old photos
     walking in the dripping woods
     lying on a couch watching old movies. 
Lovely romantic day.
But not for any old outdoor art show.

I dreamed that Pam was back from the dead
for a visit.  We went around the town a group of us 
and everywhere we went we were given
preferential treatment because of her.  
That she was out and about and able to eat 
was itself remarkable.  We knew she would not stay.  
It was only a visit.  She would be dead again soon.

I got up in the night to find she had played 
a trick on me here in this hotel room just 
as I could imagine she would.  
Do I believe in such things?
Or will I decide in the end that I do not?
And say that I dreamed that too?

 

Others now start off to do what I have done for twelve years
and want only to stop doing.  I shake my head in disbelief.  
How could they think of it?
They must be mad.