I’m in the backyard,
snapping some Match.com photos
of Alice wearing glasses
(going for a more “quirky intellectual” look),
when she stops posing,
and says, “Okay. Spill it.”
“Spill what?” I say.
“Well,” she says, “it’s obvious
that you’re upset about something
and that you don’t want to talk about it.
But it’s also obvious that if you do talk about it
you’ll feel a trillion times better.
So you might as well tell me everything
right now because I am not going to
let up on you until you do.”
I learned long ago
that sometimes it’s easier
just to go with the Alice flow—
so I tell her that Michael spent the weekend
in Sacramento chaperoning with Brandy.
And she says, “You mean Tess’s mom?”
And I say, “Do we know any other Brandys?”
And she says, “Holly. Get to the point.”
And when I can’t bring myself to go on,
she crosses her arms over her chest
and says, “Oh, don’t be an ass.
Michael would never be unfaithful to you.”
And I say, “Who said anything
about Michael being unfaithful?”
And she just gives me a look and says,
“The point is, Michael would never betray you.
Not even if Brandy threw herself at him.
Which I’m sure she didn’t.”
And I say, “What makes you so sure?”
And she says, “I mean, think about it—
Brandy runs an animal shelter, for chrissake.
She’s a Decent. Human. Being.
Besides, you’ve known her for years.
Do you really think she’d do that to you?”
Whoa…Alice is right…
Brandy’s a sweetheart…
She’d never try to steal my husband!
I feel like a boulder’s just
rolled off of my chest.
But then Alice says,
“Besides, I never believed that rumor.”
And the boulder rolls right back on.
“What rumor?” I say.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says.
“I thought you were the one who told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Well…there’s a totally unfounded rumor
going around about Brandy and her husband Colin…
that they’re…that maybe they’re splitting up.
But I know it’s not true.”
And I say, “How do you know?”
And Alice just shrugs and says,
“I have a sixth sense about these things.”
And I say, “Wow…that’s comforting…”
And she says, “I know, right?”
And I say, “I thought you said I’d feel
a trillion times better if I told you everything.”
And Alice flashes me
a very sheepish grin and says,
“Don’t you?”
AFTER ALICE LEAVES
I’m snipping a bouquet of roses,
from the bushes that border our backyard,
trying to shake off my feelings of dread
about Michael and Brandy,
when I notice that something is wrong
with our pepper tree.
She’s losing more hair
than me.
The singed tips
of her withering leaves
are curling in on themselves
like arthritic fingers—
losing their grip,
flurrying to the ground,
mounding ’round her ankles
in feathery drifts…
Something is wrong
with our pepper tree.
ON THE WAY TO THE FARMERS’ MARKET
I’m striding down the sidewalk,
taking a break from stressing
about my husband being unfaithful
and my mother being unwell
and my book being unfinishable,
contemplating, instead,
the hearty pot of gumbo
I’m planning to make for dinner,
when I see a woman feeding a meter,
standing with her back to me—
her skull barren, deforested,
save for the fresh scar rivering
along the curve of it like a child’s first
attempt at cross-stitch, or a zipper meant to keep
the woman’s thoughts from escaping.
Then she turns—
and that’s when I realize
that the woman whose head I’ve been staring at
is Beth, a writer friend from a critique group
that disbanded years ago.
Beth,
who’d seemed perfectly healthy when
we’d bumped into each other two months earlier.
She’d given me her phone number that day;
But I never did call…
We fall into a hug,
and when we pull apart,
she says, “I had a seizure. They found a tumor.
Took them twelve hours to remove it.”
“Thank God they got it out,” I say.
Beth smiles wanly.
“Well, I better get going,” she says.
“I’m late for my chemo. It makes me violently ill.
But I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay…”
As if repeating this mantra can somehow make it true.
“You are okay!” I say,
with exaggerated conviction.
Then we exchange good-byes and I rush off
just as the sun ducks behind a cloud,
fading everything to a steely gray.
I won’t
take the time
to make that pot of gumbo today.
I’ll order in from Chang’s instead.
I have got to finish writing this book.
While I still can.
IS IT A BAD SIGN?
Is it a bad sign
if the only thing
that can actually get you
to sit down
at your computer
and write
is the thought
of your own
mortality?
WHEN I’M WRITING A POEM
And I finally finally find
the exact right word—
I feel as though
I’ve been trudging though the sand
all day long
under a seething sun,
the soles of my feet
melting,
the sweat pouring from me
like beads of mercury,
staring out at the sun-starred water,
scanning for dolphins,
and, suddenly, I’ve caught sight
of a sleek gray fin breaking the surface.
WHEN I’M WRITING A POEM
And I can’t find the exact right word
(or even a halfway decent word)
I feel as though I’m trying
to light a fire.
I surround the dry logs
with crisp fists of newspaper,
touch a match to them,
and watch them flare up like greased torches.
But when the blazing paper turns to cinder,
I see that the logs are barely smoldering.
So I crumple up more newspaper, and more—
a whole Sunday Times worth,
lighting it and relighting it…
blowing, stirring, stoking…
But no matter how fiercely I fan
those first flickering antlers of flame,
no matter how hard I coax
those gasping yellow-gold ghosts,
the damn fire
just won’t catch.
I AM TIRED OF BEING A POET
Worn out by this business
of always having to see things
with “fresh new eyes.”
Just once I’d like to sit by the fire
without trying to figure out how to describe it
in a way that no one else ever has before.
I’m tired of meter, tired of form,
tired of rhyme, tired of off-rhyme,
tired of repetition, tired of metaphors—
those wild…somethings
that never fail to fly south for the winter
just when I need them most.
I am rife with,
no…overrun with,
no…bursting with
the boredom,
the monotony,
the tedium
of constantly
having to look up words
in my thesaurus.
I’m fed up with allusion,
alienated by allegory,
allergic to alliteration.
But I’m especially tired of similes—
those sneaky figures of speech
that ceaselessly elude me,
just as
they’re eluding me
right now
on this cloudy morning
that’s like…
a cloudy morning.
I’ve had it up to here
with trying to invent yet another original way
to say “I’m really sad.”
I’m not as melancholy as the song
of the mateless mockingbird,
I’m just plain miserable—
miserable
and sick and tired
of being a poet.
AND COME TO THINK OF IT
I’m sick and tired of being a jealous wife, too—
a wife who’s been reduced
to sneaking glances at every “to do” list
my husband leaves lying around.
Like the one I saw just now that said:
“buy new brushes”
and “pick up canvas”
and “call B.”
But what the hell
am I supposed to think
when I see something like that?
I mean, what would you think?
I’m sick and tired of being a jealous wife—
a wife who’s been reduced
to spending her days
Googling detective agencies
when what she ought to be doing is writing.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT?
I’m sick and tired
of being
a daughter, too.
But I guess I shouldn’t have admitted that.
It makes me sound
like a hideously ungrateful wretch.
Because, I mean, that poor woman,
who’s been going more and more bonkers
from those massive steroid injections,
that poor woman,
who calls me twenty times a day
from her hospital bed,
is the very same woman who taught me
to tie my shoes and snap my fingers
and ride a bike,
who fed me vats of homemade chicken soup,
and read me Horton Hears a Who!
till it must have been coming out of her ears,
and played Go Fish with me
till we were both
practically brain-dead.
That poor woman, who Coppertoned me
and Calamined me and VapoRubbed me
in the middle of so many nights—
she deserves
better
than me.
EVERY TIME MY MOTHER CALLS
I feel burdened and bitter and
selfish and saddled and
surly and rankled and
ravaged and rattled and
battered and buried and
pummeled and tackled and
testy and trampled and
needled and shackled and
seethey and swiney and
whiny and wilty and
guilty, guilty,
guilty, guilty!
WHEN I GET LIKE THIS:
Like I’m being sucked into the vortex
of a vicious downward spiral
that’s spinning me straight to hell,
I can’t help wishing
that someone,
anyone,
would just pull me over
and arrest me
for being too damn hormonal.
But then I’d just be
too damn hormonal
in jail.
THOUGH, LET’S FACE IT
Even if I weren’t hormonal right now,
(which, of course, I totally am)
I’d have plenty of reasons
to be seriously bummed—
Roxie’s been bearing down on me
my mother’s so nuts
she thinks she’s dating Elvis,
my daughter’s getting ready
to leave me,
and I’m pretty sure
Michael is, too.
Though Alice insists
I’m wrong about this.
But even if Alice is right
(which I highly doubt),
I’ve got plenty of reasons
to be seriously bummed.
And—
wait a minute…
Omigod…
is that what I think it is?
A moving truck
just pulled up next door.
Nooooooooooooooooooo!
ANYONE COULD HAVE MOVED INTO THAT HOUSE
Why couldn’t it have been
a lovely deaf couple who speak
to each other in sign language?
Or maybe
some nice quiet Tibetan monks
who meditate 24/7?
Or a pair
of retired mimes
who’ve taken a vow of silence?
Why did it have to be
Duncan and Jane
(a drummer and a trumpet player),
plus a yappy poodle named Pinkie
and a tantrum-prone toddler
named Madison?
Anyone could have moved into that house.
ACTUALLY
Once you get to know her
Madison’s not so bad.
In fact, she’s pretty darn lovable
when she isn’t kicking and screaming.
I didn’t notice it
when we went over there
to bring them some butterscotch brownies
on the day they moved in,
but Madison looks
a lot like Samantha did at that age—
with that same sweet storm
of wild brown curls,
those same
irresistible peachy cheeks…
The only problem with this is
that every time I glance into their yard
and happen to see Jane
pulling her daughter in for a nuzzly hug,
I remember how
my own two-year-old felt…
those warm pudgy arms of hers
circling me like a wreath…
that soft soft skin
on her neck…
I remember how she used to grab hold
of each of my ears
then lean in and plant sloppy kisses
on the tip of my nose…
And every time
I remember these things
my heart shatters
like a glass bell rung too hard.
I’M IN A HUGE HURRY
I’ve got to wrap the nightgown
I just bought my mom for Mother’s Day,
then rush to the post office before it closes.
But I can’t find
my freaking scissors.
I never can find them.
Because Michael�
��s always
borrowing them for his collages
and then forgetting to return them.
I call him on his cell to tell him
to bring my scissors downstairs—now!
But it goes to his voice mail.
So I slam out of my office,
fume across the yard,
and mutter my way up the stairs to his studio,
the thunder
of Duncan’s warpath drums
mimicking my mood.
MICHAEL DOESN’T NOTICE ME COMING
But I can see,
through the window,
that he’s talking to someone
on the phone—
to someone
who’s making him laugh…
someone who seems to be
charming the pants right off of him…