NOTE: When I taught at the College of Saint Catherine in 1981, the chair assigned me an introductory literature course called The Human Experience. I loved that because it seemed to cast a pretty wide net. In fact, I decided I could teach anything, except for maybe Aesop’s Fables, Animal Farm, and Charlotte’s Web. This month’s theme (and last month’s too), Men and Women, is pretty broad too, so here are three with men, women, the works!

​ 
Remember the dream you had


the horrible one
where I shot
our newborn daughter
after we agreed
it was best?
I’ve never
owned a gun,
you know
I love kids.
I won’t be forgiven,
ever, even though
you told me
right away
when you woke,
and let me
hold you.
You smelled hot
and lovely
as bread
and you trembled
in our bed
until morning
rushed over us
and we somehow
tumbled back into our lives.
 

 


When She Wakes


Something wrong, everyday rain and the radio
warns of waves, of caravans, of bacteria buried
in the dirt. And where is the father
who sat in the bleachers reading the Times
until it was your turn to bat? He has turned                               
to stone, gray on the dreary hill where once
he hiked, hands behind his back
dreaming of a country encased in glass.
Where is the mother with her broken tongue,
her Miltowns lined up on the bedside table?
She’s asleep in the leaves, dreaming of a little town
by a quiet lake. When she wakes, she will touch
her fingers to her nose one by one.
She might sing a little, complain about the cold,
listen as evening falls, for vapor trails and the siren’s wail.

 



Wine in the Afternoon
 

Cold morning, first snow on the driveway.
A new kind of silence on the frost-scattered lawn.
Three ghosts squeeze through the wall
into our living room. It is wine they want,
red Bordeaux with the taste of earth and sun.
I pour the goblets half full. Pale light leaks
through the windows, glints on the purple
surface as they laugh and sip. Soon the bottle
is empty, and I go downstairs to fetch another,
leaving you alone to entertain, which you do,
as I hear laughter floating through the cellar
door. The woman has loosened her hair.
She laughs so hard that tears rain from her eyes.
One man has lit a cigarette, and coughs
as the other pounds him on the back.
Somehow, you’ve managed snacks – cheese
and nuts and crusty bread. The men stuff themselves,
as crumbs scatter on the table.
The woman, recovered now, shakes her head
at the mess, and I can see that you, always neat,
are not too pleased. I pour glasses for us all,
and we drink until late afternoon, when the long
shadows stretch down towards the pond.
We are all tipsy now, and a little sleepy.
The woman has climbed onto her lover’s lap,
and the other man eyes you hungrily.
I light a candle, recite a verse I keep in reserve
for such occasions, Ozymandias, king of kings.
You tidy up. Night falls early and I see them out.
Nothing beside remains. Wind drives them down
the street, into crystals of ice, into mist, and snow.