The Buzzer

I almost fold your laundry, the numb air

of garments settling, the last breadth of the dryer,

call to me to care for your hot things

Marie Condo says to ask the clothes

how they should be folded

to listen to the fabric, go with the seams

The breeze is warm, early June, almost summer

I promise myself I will reach a little higher

and watch for the muse, its bud or bloom

Word next to word, line and—it’s already late—

I ignore the call, the bid to be like a wife

A creaser and stacker of shorts and tees

Peeking into my soul I find a woman within the stack

every other item a sculpted figure, a poem

then an underwear and on it goes

But I say go with the weft

And leave with the weave

On my bike

zipping through the hillside graveyard, a shortcut,

Leo Zipperer has a big white carved lion in repose upon his stone

Has that always been there? The plots at the top seem preferable,

the poor souls at the bottom, their bones soaked under the melted snow of

            March and April    blue     grey green    water    white     trumpets    swans    eternity

Two big white swans—or are they pelicans?—off in the distance

float together past the span of water lilies, disrupting reflections

Now I see there are three, must be pelicans because swans are usually in

            pairs     cerulean      time       migration       floating       mating    pouncing

Once in Mexico, he begins.      Yes, you have told me THAT BEFORE, I say

The Blue house, yes, a chance encounter, a private tour,

            sunflowers     luck    hours     cerrada      zip

Ruffled florals over under a velvet huipil    Frida died at 47, her paintings

            waiting     days      drying    confessing      So unfair—look at infinity

know what timelessness is, and yet, an expiration date,

dogs around ten years, we, ten times that but not 100 times

            zippers       watching      swans     drift

It’s almost five pm, the client leaves, promising to return 

a broken promise of published hours

            trust      spin      bonds     wheels     closed

Waiting at the Women’s Health Centre

The word change is cut

into a round river stone, set on the carpet

in the changing room. A mammogram,

like a telegram, like a cuneiform,

is a message. The rock is under a table

that holds two woven baskets of swabs,

one with deodorant, the other

with deodorant removal. I remove

my sweater, shirt, and bra, then slip

into a half-gown, the shade of institutional

green, yellowish, and bright, like over-watered grass

I leave on my jeans and boots

in what feels like an obscene combination

of dress and undress. While waiting

for the technician, I consider

the oracle nature of the stone:

Substitute one thing for another

My scan shows no cancer

but I hear the message: Now

you are alive so get going,

this is your time.