SINKING SHIP
Did you receive my invitation
I picked you at random from a faded phone
book I found in my mother’s attic
next to some roller skates with a silver key
I flipped through and there you were
on page 522, my lucky number
and my sister’s name is Amy too
so it had to be you
did you know my neurons are fleeing
like rats on a foundering ship
skittering all over my kitchen floor
crawling into cupboards of long-expired cans
my ship seems to be sinking pretty fast
can’t remember who the vice president is
or if I took my pink pills
I chose you, yes you, dear Amy to help me
round up the roving neurons
so I don’t forget my birthday, which I think
is in July, but could be in January
amazed we have made it this far
despite subpar parents
and groping uncles
don’t you agree, my dear Amy
there goes one right now
catch it! quick!
don’t step on it!
sorry, I thought you were still here
were you ever here?
LEANING
We lean on our stories the way
we lean on our canes
for a sense of stability,
to feel solid ground beneath our feet
who would we be without our stories
that tell us who we are
daughter of an alcoholic
mother of a disabled child
wife of a wonderful man who often
forgets to lock the front door
are we living on light from dead stars
the present glued to the past
like black and white photos of people in fedoras
and feathered boas staring from a family album
stories stitched to us like shadows
stuck to our soles like chewing gum
staying past their appointed season
smothering possibility
could we let stories go like helium balloons
watching them float colorfully away
like a flock of Starlings
would we dare live new ones
while leaning on our CVS canes
and letting our lives flow?
THE BEST POSSIBLE YOU
Maybe you want to be more holy
or simply a bit more human
perhaps you need a little help
to become the best possible you
the one who walks her cranky neighbor’s Dachshund
and waters her drooping begonias
not the you who yells at the pale CVS clerk
for keeping you waiting five minutes
not the you who doesn’t answer the phone
when her sister calls with yet another
stream of complaints about her latest cold,
her dead-end kids and another burnt casserole
May I suggest sticking to the minor deities
the second string gods
waiting in the wings
for their moment of glory
growing grumpy over the years
their pearly gowns turning grey
but willing to work for minimum wage
since their inboxes are collecting cobwebs
I personally pray to Eirene, the Greek goddess
of patience, and Haurun, an Egyptian healing god
setting out candles each morning
along with peanut butter crackers
which I end up eating myself
I never hear back, but I know they
are watching since I felt a sharp twinge
when I clipped a car in Lucky’s parking lot
and didn’t leave a note
not yet the best possible me
but working on it
buying more peanut butter every day
BIRD FOOD
All set to buy bird food today
up early, ready to roll
robins, finches, juncos circle empty feeders
after a steaming shower, I notice the yellow stickie
on the bathroom mirror
first socks, then shoes
—Gary Larson
all my socks have holes in the heels
and my mother said always wear clean underwear
in case, never sure what in case was, but it must apply to socks too
surely no socks with holes, in case
check out Amazon where there are two hundred pages of possible socks
some out of stock, some over fifty dollars, all packed in passels
of forty or fifty, all in a dizzying array of colors, but who wears
white or yellow or orange-striped socks
who wears SpongeBob or Cup of Noodle socks
hours later, sore fingers and no socks
I google Petfood Express who will deliver
a minimum order of five hundred dollars
I pull my rubber boots over my sockless feet
even though we are in a drought and people will stare
and quickly cross the street
my ten-year-old Honda car coughs and complains
and I curse and say a few feckless prayers
to a god who is no longer in my address book
and has long forgotten this little lamb
I try You Tube videos but can’t tell the difference between
a crankshaft and a piston and now the car is spewing smoke
and shooting sparks and the neighbor is complaining
and I call my mechanic who has moved to Guatemala
and I order a peperoni pizza from Zachary’s
open a bottle of two buck chuck
and curl up on the couch to watch Planet Earth
noticing the sparrows look particularly thin
IN THE ICU
I woke in the dark.
The sheets were scratchy and smelled of Clorox.
White curtains around my bed, like ghosts with thin hearts.
The woman next to me had a raspy cough.
I was seventeen.
Seventy-five pounds.
My best.
I had overheard the doctor tell my father I might die.
My heart muscle damaged. My heart rate too slow.
I didn’t care. I waited in the dark.
A nurse came and said I had to get out of bed.
I said I couldn’t. She insisted. I tried, then fainted.
So there.
They let me stay in bed.
I refused food. Said I wasn’t hungry.
A familiar refrain.
I spoke a few words to the woman
on the other side of the curtain.
I told her my name.
Hers sounded something like Emily.
but her voice was weak, barely a whisper.
I missed my parents.
Why weren’t they there?
A commotion around the woman’s bed.
Doctors, nurses scurrying. Equipment rolling on
squeaky wheels. Hushed voices like a library.
Or a chapel.
After, they opened the curtain between our beds.
Her bed was empty.
New sheets, plumped pillows.
And I knew that wasn’t what I wanted.
To be a ghost with a thin heart.
To disappear. Forever.
I eyed the scrambled eggs on my tray.
To this day I pray for the woman who saved my life.
I think her name was Emily.
