Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash
Death Means Not Sleeping
How do you keep on getting out of bed each morning?
A bed that is half empty since the day your husband died.
A life that seems like a flight of stairs missing a step
and you always seem to trip on that one.
Your bed is half empty since your husband died.
You want to hide in his closet and cuddle his clothes.
You trip each time a visitor wants you to come downstairs.
You choose solitude as you cry with your memories.
You want to hide in his closet and sit with his empty clothes.
Your friends push you to get out of the house.
You choose solitude as you replay your memories.
You search for keepsakes while cleaning out his closet.
Your friends push you to get out of the house.
There are nights you choose to sleep on the sofa downstairs.
You search for keepsakes while cleaning out his closet.
Refuse to sleep on sheets that once held him.
There are nights you choose to sleep on the sofa
so as not to walk a flight of stairs missing a step.
You refuse to sleep on sheets that once held him.
You get out of bed, struggle not to trip on the stairs.
Ghazal from a Bottle
Our experience taking nourishment as babies meant drinking from a bottle.
We were completely dependent on someone else to prepare a warm bottle.
I see milk cartons in grocery stores today and think of all the milk varieties, oat, soy,
almond, and recall as a child just one kind of milk delivered to our door in clear bottles.
When my aunt made peach preserves, we were always eager to volunteer to be her tasters.
When my uncle made cough syrup, we did not get to sample what he put in a brown bottle.
Last week we lazed at the seashore, dozing on the sand under the spell of blue water.
Waking up, we joined a crowd around a boy who found a message in a green bottle.
When my girlfriend died in college, I knew for weeks beforehand she was addicted to rum.
I always avoided alcohol, having seen its effects, knowing there is evil in that shapely bottle.
Living in a city where crime statistics climb daily, where some have lost their way, I always
worry about guns, carjackings, and rockets made from gasoline and rags stuffed in bottles.
I see my life coming closer to the end, years moving toward 80, my body becoming ashes.
Where will my name be inscribed? My name engraved on what kind of bottle?
On Tuesdays
She wakes to the noise of the garbage truck.
It’s much too early to be awake, but it seems
no one has invented a garbage truck
without brakes that squeal
like a microphone’s feedback.
The truck’s pounding noise proves
cans are completely empty, a thonk
signaling there’s nothing left inside, noise
reverberating through the neighborhood
as the truck stops at each house.
These trucks are primitive in design,
men hanging off the back, jumping
down at each house, lifting the cans
into the back of the truck, tossing
the empties onto the driveway,
then jumping back onto the truck
and hanging on until reaching the next
set of cans in the next driveway,
leaping and lifting over and over,
acrobats collecting the trash.
Several hours later, the recycling truck
comes through. By this time, she is awake
and unperturbed by its digestive noises.
Awake enough to appreciate the choreography
of the gymnasts who haul garbage,
grateful that her community collects
garbage separately from recyclables,
and that today, with no rain, she stays dry
as she drags her cans behind her garage
where they reside every day but Tuesday.