March 2021
Bio Note: I grew up in the rolling, forested hills of Connecticut but have spent my adult
life in California—first on the coast, and now in the desert. My poetry comes out of all of those places,
and then some. I have published nine poetry collections, most recently Now Voyager with illustrations by Susan Abbott.
Bigfoot
What fresh hell is this?
–Dorothy Parker
If the monkey on your back
ever touched down,
he would leave his mark—
but the way you carry
him around, he never gets
to scare anyone else.
Meanwhile, you’re bent
double, buckling under
his weight. People hesitate
when you approach,
step aside just in case.
It’s not easy to keep up
appearances—every time
you look in the mirror,
you need a haircut.
And your feet won’t
stop growing—already
you wear combat boots
to slog through the mire,
armed with a standard
disclaimer—
This isn’t the monster
you’re looking for.
Weather Report
You can get used to anything,
said a woman friend when I asked
how she lived right next to the highway.
It wasn’t much longer before she died
from natural causes. My house sits
ten minutes from hers, but well back
from that road, enough hilly desert
to muffle the sound. Today it’s 86°
at sunup. I water pines and willows
before the heat gets worse, recalling
childhood summers in Connecticut—
the mosquitos, humidity, struggle
for breath. Yes, dry heat is better—
I don’t miss that eastern climate,
especially the treacherous indoor air—
my parents a perpetually falling
barometer, thunderheads piled high,
roiling with blame and scorn.
I’d pretend they weren’t there,
close the door to my room
and not come out until dinner—
eaten in silence, the two of them
locked in a Mexican standoff—
me swallowing fast and running
from the table, yelling inside,
Let me out, let me out, let me out!—
away from the stifling weather
I never learned to bear.
©2021 Cynthia Anderson
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