May 2016
Kate Sontag
sontagk@ripon.edu
sontagk@ripon.edu
I am co-editor (with David Graham) of After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography (Graywolf) and have published widely in journals and anthologies. Recently retired from Ripon College, I spend a lot of time reading drafts of poems to my husband and our two spaniels who are all very patient with me. If you love food and poetry, please check out Cooking With The Muse (Tupelo, 4/16) in which I have a little poem about cherry tomatoes; it is a stunning book of recipes, related literature, food culture & history, and photographs.
Housesitting
Just before it rains everything goes quiet—
the grass, the trees, this pond we would wade in
if it weren’t for the snapping turtles. I hear them
from the dock waking to what could be my sister
in flip flops approaching me with her new baby
but is only a dreamy splash as one more heads
mudward. I hear them and it’s as if a child
we might have had had thrown a stone and then
another from a warm spot on the diving board
beneath a cloud now in my grandmother’s backyard. This is someone else’s backyard. A woman
pregnant as the sky lives here, her husband
soft spoken as the first gentle tapping on the leaves.
Timepiece
Our first night together, unable
to sleep, I glance at your handsome face and hands
glassed in with me from the snow,
then turn to watch the white glow
of a silent thicket outside.
Somewhere a cricket is clicking his wings
in a greener season.
Husband
How odd the Girl’s life looks
Behind this soft Eclipse—
-Emily Dickinson
Remember how you would fantasize
about him with friends while jogging
through the park, or over bowls
of mesclun salad at sidewalk cafes?
How you would catch him singing along
in the bleachers at outdoor concerts,
or eyeing you on the downtown train
Saturday evenings, then watch him
drift away like someone’s party balloon?
You can still smell the sulfur residue
of his fireworks from July 4th weekends
and New Year’s, feel him brushing
past you in line at matinees or between
paintings in museums. Not to mention
all those mornings he sat right next to you
before work at the same coffee counter
reading the paper, or those nights
at bars when you listened to others say
his name as they introduced him to you
and the two of you made small talk.
Remember when the word was not yours
to say? Claim it now, husband, proud
as an ostrich feather plucked and tucked
into the crevice of a Renaissance Fair hat.
Say it again, and get fat on it. Let it fill you
like deferred light from a supernova in one
bright gulp. Admit it. You love to picnic
beside him with windows wide open
as the breeze bangs against the blinds
and sets the wind chimes to a dissonant music.
You love that he wants you however you are
dressed or undressed, plump and getting
plumper. Oh, you fat wife you—
happy, happy, happy! The slices of green,
of red, of yellow apples he feeds you
are growing sweeter by the second.
Housesitting
Just before it rains everything goes quiet—
the grass, the trees, this pond we would wade in
if it weren’t for the snapping turtles. I hear them
from the dock waking to what could be my sister
in flip flops approaching me with her new baby
but is only a dreamy splash as one more heads
mudward. I hear them and it’s as if a child
we might have had had thrown a stone and then
another from a warm spot on the diving board
beneath a cloud now in my grandmother’s backyard. This is someone else’s backyard. A woman
pregnant as the sky lives here, her husband
soft spoken as the first gentle tapping on the leaves.
Timepiece
Our first night together, unable
to sleep, I glance at your handsome face and hands
glassed in with me from the snow,
then turn to watch the white glow
of a silent thicket outside.
Somewhere a cricket is clicking his wings
in a greener season.
Husband
How odd the Girl’s life looks
Behind this soft Eclipse—
-Emily Dickinson
Remember how you would fantasize
about him with friends while jogging
through the park, or over bowls
of mesclun salad at sidewalk cafes?
How you would catch him singing along
in the bleachers at outdoor concerts,
or eyeing you on the downtown train
Saturday evenings, then watch him
drift away like someone’s party balloon?
You can still smell the sulfur residue
of his fireworks from July 4th weekends
and New Year’s, feel him brushing
past you in line at matinees or between
paintings in museums. Not to mention
all those mornings he sat right next to you
before work at the same coffee counter
reading the paper, or those nights
at bars when you listened to others say
his name as they introduced him to you
and the two of you made small talk.
Remember when the word was not yours
to say? Claim it now, husband, proud
as an ostrich feather plucked and tucked
into the crevice of a Renaissance Fair hat.
Say it again, and get fat on it. Let it fill you
like deferred light from a supernova in one
bright gulp. Admit it. You love to picnic
beside him with windows wide open
as the breeze bangs against the blinds
and sets the wind chimes to a dissonant music.
You love that he wants you however you are
dressed or undressed, plump and getting
plumper. Oh, you fat wife you—
happy, happy, happy! The slices of green,
of red, of yellow apples he feeds you
are growing sweeter by the second.
©2016 Kate Sontag