my sentence is incomplete?
Please,
live with me in the open slope
of a question mark.
Don’t answer it!
Curl up in a comma
that says more, and more, and more . . .
Big Head, Big Face
(what my brother said to me)
If your head had been smaller
maybe you woulda had less thoughts in it,
maybe you wouldn’t have so many troubles.
This is just a guess but seems to me
like a little drawer only hold a few spoons
and you can always find the one you need
while a big drawer jammed with tongs
strings corks junky stuff receipts birthday cards
you never gonna look at
scrambled and mixed so one day
you
open that drawer
poke your hand in and big knife go
through your palm
you didn’t even know a knife was IN there,
well, that’s why I think
it might not be so bad to have a little head
with just a few thoughts few memories few hopes
maybe if only one little one came true
that be enough for you.
Supple Cord
My brother, in his small white bed,
held one end.
I tugged the other
to signal I was still awake.
We could have spoken,
could have sung
to one another,
we were in the same room
for five years,
but the soft cord
with its little frayed ends
connected us
in the dark,
gave comfort
even if we had been bickering
all day.
When he fell asleep first
and his end of the cord
dropped to the floor,
I missed him terribly,
though I could hear his even breath
and we had such long and separate lives
ahead.
Every Day
My hundred-year-old next-door neighbor told me:
every day is a good day if you have it.
I had to think about that a minute.
She said, Every day is a present
someone left at your birthday place at the table.
Trust me! It may not feel like that
but it’s true. When you’re my age
you’ll know. Twelve is a treasure.
And it’s up to you
to unwrap the package gently,
lift out the gleaming hours
wrapped in tissue,
don’t miss the bottom of the box.
The Bucket
A small girl with braids
is carrying a bucket
toward the sea.
She walks determinedly,
her red bathing suit
secure on her hips.
She seems to know
exactly what she is doing,
what she will carry
in the bucket.
Nothing can stop her,
not the sand,
which tries to swallow
each tiny foot,
or the mother,
calling after her
with a camera.
Now she is running,
waving her arms,
the small bucket
thrown free
into the air!
Little Chair
“There’s a cool web of language winds us in. . . .”
—ROBERT GRAVES
“I saw great things mirrored in littleness. . . .”
—EDITH SITWELL
1
I didn’t mind so much
growing out of little girl clothes
the blue striped shirt
the corduroy jumper
giving up Candy Land
and my doctor’s kit
but never again to fit
the turquoise Mexican chair
with flowers painted on it
hurt
I keep it in my room till now
a throne for the stuffed camel
Little kids sit on it when they visit
The straw in the seat is still strong
The flowers are always blooming
2
Miss Ruth Livingston
who taught first grade for forty-three years
in Marfa, Texas
kept a little reading chair
in front of the windows in her classroom
Whenever her students finished their work
they knew they could go over to the little chair
and read
It was a safe place
Their minds could wander anywhere
I wish everyone in the world had a little chair
3
Recently a big cowboy wearing sunglasses
came to Miss Livingston’s house and asked where
“that old furniture from our classroom went”
She’s ninety-seven now
She still has her china-faced dolls
from when she was small
She pointed at the wooden reading chair
sitting in front of the windows
in her beautiful living room
He walked over to the little chair
with his hands folded
and silently stood there, stood there
SECTION TWO
Secret Hum
Secret
How can I be in love with a bus
going by at 6 A.M.
when no one I know is riding it?
Swoosh of tires in the rain—
the hummingbird in the zinnia patch
doesn’t find a single flower worth
sinking her beak into.
She’s a choosy hummingbird!
I’m a choosy hummingbird
All day I dip and dive
twice as alive
as yesterday.
Some Days
Your handwriting stands
like a small forest on the page
You could enter it anywhere
Your room looks new to you
maybe you moved a lamp
arranged a pillow differently
on the bed
Such small things
change a room
Single candle
on a desk you finally cleaned
sharpened pencils waiting
in a white cup
I devote myself to short sentences
Air answers
Breath remembers
A streak of light signs the floor
Eye
I am keeping my eye on that boy.
My secret eye, spy eye.
How does he act when the teacher
leaves the room?
If someone makes a mistake,
what then?
He picked up Lucy’s pencil when she dropped it.
Does he recognize my existence?
Does he see me gleaming
in my chair?
I Want to Meet the Girl
who does not run her country
the way I do not run my country.
I want to meet the girl
who hides in a crowd,
who laughs into her hand,
who was not in the picture.
The girl who stands back
after being introduced
by her parents
in a way she would not choose.
Who turns her head to the side
so she doesn’t miss seeing what’s there.
Where is she?
In the School Cafeteria
Your face makes me feel like a lighthouse
beaming across waves.
We don’t even know one another,
yet each day I am looking for your face.
Walking slowly among tabl
es, I balance my tray,
glancing to the side.
You’re not here today.
Are you sick?
Why are you absent?
And why, among all these faces,
is there only one I want to see?
Whatever the reason
your absence is not excused
by me.
Crush
A girl wrote a letter on an orange
and placed it on a doorstep.
That day the sky tasted fresh as mint.
Where He Is
Last night at sunset
two jet trails made a giant X in the sky
right over our city.
I was reading Spanish in the porch swing
when my neighbor walking her two dogs
pointed up, shouting happily,
“X marks the spot! YOU ARE HERE!”
White trails against dusky blue.
I stared at her. I said, “You are here too.
We are all here.”
And I got goose bumps.
Because I knew the boy I haven’t met yet
is here too, somewhere close by,
and I knew he was looking up.
I could feel him looking.
Groups of People Going Places Together
One is always walking
in front of the others.
Maybe this is the one
who really wanted to come.
They didn’t all want to come,
that’s for sure.
Someone is pushing a baby carriage.
The baby is sleeping, sunburned,
or fussy.
Maybe the baby didn’t want to come.
The baby would rather be
crawling around on a rug.
That girl would rather be home reading.
Very little conversation
is going on.
Maybe two people tipping their heads together
asking why they came.
No one smiles at me or anyone else going by.
They are clumsy, carrying towels, jugs,
beach bags, hats.
It is hard to walk in a group.
Sifter
When our English teacher gave
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in 2 descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhoda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers,
singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in the sifter until you turn the handle.
Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
and no one ever knew.
I Said to Dana’s Mother
I can’t wait to be older and free.
We were sitting at Dana’s kitchen table,
working on our history project.
Free of schoolwork, able to choose
the ways I spend my days,
but Dana’s mom turned her face
to me sharply.
“Missy,” she said (not my name),
“you’ll never be as free
as you are now.”
Then she turned back to
cooking dinner.
The air felt thinner in the room.
Thinner, and sad.
Can air feel sad?
Because of Poems
Words have secret parties.
Verbs, adjectives, and nouns
meet outside their usual boundaries,
wearing hats.
MOODY feels doubtful about attending
and pauses near the door, ready to escape.
But she’s fascinated by DAZZLE.
BEFRIEND throws a comforting arm
around her shoulder.
LOST and REMEMBER huddle
in the same corner, trading
phone numbers.
I serve punch.
Having Forgotten to Bring a Book, She Reads the Car Manual Aloud
Do not sit on the edge of the open moonroof.
Do not operate the moonroof if falling snow
has caused it to freeze shut.
(I thought it was a sunroof, actually.)
Do not place coins into the accessory socket.
The cup holder should not be used while driving.
Well, when then?
While parked at home?
Perhaps at midnight, with insomnia?
Hi, Mom, I think I’ll just go have a glass of milk
in the driveway.
If you need to dispose of the air bag
or scrap the vehicle . . .
Never allow anyone to ride in the luggage area.
Do not operate the defogger longer than necessary.
Please remove necktie or scarf while working on
engine.
Never jack up the vehicle more than necessary.
A running engine can be dangerous.
If the Shoe Doesn’t Fit
you take it off
of course you take it off
it doesn’t worry you
it isn’t your shoe
On the Same Day My Parents Were Arguing
Down by the quiet little river
between the old missions,
white cranes stand listening.
It is hard to tell if they are awake.
Their elegant necks barely turn
as another crane floats low
among them, touching ground.
One dips a beak swiftly into water
then springs back.
What have they seen across the long sky?
It hides inside the layered feathers
of their heads.
Changed
They said something mean about me
and didn’t notice it was mean.
So my heart wandered
into the rainy night without them
and found a canopy
to hide under.
My eyes started
seeing through things.
Like gauze.
Old self through new self.
My flexible body
went backwards
and forwards
in time.
It’s hard to describe but true:
I grew another head
with better ideas
inside my old head.
Hairdo
Because of the hair on the head
of the girl in front of me in school,
daily I travel slopes and curves.
I detour past the ribbon.
The clip is a dam.
I want to pluck it out—
surprise!
Inventing new methods for parting
on a blue-lined page, I make
math go away.
Embrace the math of hair.
Layers and levels of hair.
Some hair grows into ropes.
&nb
sp; Rivers of waves, blunt cut.
Oh what will I make of my messy messy hair?
Message in the Thin Wind Before Bedtime
Stiff lip won’t help.
Stiff arm breaks too.
You need soft touch.
Try on soft shoe.
Hard voice cracks back.
Hard head heats up.
Mark that sharp note.
Bypass “So what?”
Tender heart lasts long.
Who looked? Who heard?
Let those grips go.
Birds get last word.
High Hopes
It wasn’t that they were so
high, exactly,
they were more
low-down,
close-to-the-ground,
I could rub them
the way you touch a cat
that rubs against your ankles
even if he isn’t yours.
So yes I feel lonely without them.
Now that I know the truth,
that I only dreamed someone liked me,
the cat has curled up in a bed of leaves
against the house and I still have to do
everything I had to do before
without a secret hum
inside.
Bad Dream
None of the cats
will let me touch them
I bring clean bowls
of fresh milk
They won’t drink it
till I’m back in the house
Tuxedo cat looks up
I’m at the window
Flick! He ran
into the bushes
Is this what it feels like
to grow older and return to
the neighborhood
you once knew?
SECTION THREE
Magical Geography
People I Admire
poke their shovels into the dirt.
Whatever they turn over interests them,
not just what they plant.
If there are roots or worms,
if the soil is darker, or mottled,
maybe the cap of an old bottle,
a snail, an ancient tunnel
left by a burrowing mole.
They know there is plenty of ground.
Every place has a warm old name.
The plumed grasses bend backwards