Fuel, then, that car filled to the rear window with newspapers
and monthly magazines, all mixed with white envelopes,
all loosely cascading over the front seat,
pooling on the floor around the feet

of the woman driving it, the woman called
the woman with the car full of newspapers,
always arriving out of nowhere, and once sited
by kids on the street complaining, “Nothing to do,”

called,“Emergency landing!” For loaded down as she was,
she tipped a wing too far, rolled,
spilled, caused an explosion, because as it was,
when she pulled over, she dug out,

popped the sprung door, pushed back the leak
of papers, in front of the post office brushed off,
straightened on her way in to see Stewart,
the postal clerk. Stewart called Stump.

Stump. Not as a result of explosions,
more because he moved so little
and stated the obvious, like “Those B-52’s
up there refueling again,” though never a word

to the woman with the car full of newspapers,
just the exchange. For her, an unclaimed magazine
or newspaper, an occasional dead letter
that Stump saved, what Stump told us,

once we were ready to stop playing,
was the least anyone deserved,
a place, even if it wasn’t real.
Fuel now, the sound barriers breaking—

to see, then, a B-52 refueling in flight,
to pinpoint, high overhead,
two shiny bodies connected by what
looked like a plastic straw in a milk carton.

 

 

 

 

 

The incision across her abdomen
Almost fully disappeared.
She circles a finger in the air,
Imitating the umbilical cord’s coil
Around the neck,
The way the room spun with the news.

What do we say
To such incomprehensible suffering?
That’s life, perhaps, and perhaps by that
We mean life on a planet, turning,
And the moon—itself born of Earth—
Floating dead in the sky.

Sometimes, she’d cycle through her scars,
Pointing and detailing their origins.
I’d follow along,
Pressing my lips to each one,
Astonished by the body’s healing,
By the radiant gestures of her hands.

How is it that I told her No
When she asked if those scars were beautiful?
As if she wanted a meditation on ankles
Gashed by rusted piping,
Or an aesthetic argument for wrists
Blistered on electric griddles.

All these years later,
And I still circle back to that night,
To her crying on the bed.
What can I say?
That’s life, perhaps,
And perhaps by that I mean

That what I know of myself is memories,
A snake discarding its skin to survive.

 

We have reached this place.

A continent’s end-stop
made whole.

Fir, cedar, the old Chinook wood.

Glacial water meets the ocean
all morning. Sand in our shoes,
soggy with a distant mountain’s gift.

A ship tells us
there are farther places

but we can’t believe it.

Beaten ridges break across
the sky above the Strait. Gulls,
the pier. The final corner

is a gesturing land. A hint.

 

 

 

–Life magazine headline, July 4, 1969

When I was young I wanted to go to the moon

but I’ve only made it to Milwaukee,

which is to say I have learned

 

about adjusting expectations.

When I was young I planned to move

to the big city, any big city,

 

but my hometown grew and grew

in a labyrinth of commerce around me,

which is to say only certain bodies at rest

 

tend to stay at rest not to mention

good urban planning is a must. When I was young

I was going to drive a Porsche 944 flat on the floor

 

but I’ve been all four-door sedans and minivans

which is to say I had kids   which I was not planning

with a husband          I was not planning

 

the latter of whom came into my life

wearing plaid pants which I was

definitely     not     planning

 

which is to say that love is the unbalanced force

unnamed in Newton’s first law

and I learned early on

 

one, to accept people as they are

even if they have no fashion sense and two,

planning will only take you so far but love

 

will take you everywhere, even

to Milwaukee in winter, which is to say

although I reserve the right to complain

 

we do what we have to do. Older now,

I take uncommon pleasure simply anticipating

an afternoon cappuccino

 

from a powdered mix, which is to say life

is improbable, and if you look you’ll find a galaxy

in your cup, perfect and round and spinning.

 

 

 

Sitting that night by the fire, all she could think
was how the logs had segmented to look
like a spine. You were saying something
about your life, but the bones in the fire
glowed slow flashes of red,
she heard only their sighing breath.
Voice falling in the empty air, you saw
her eyes closed, hand reaching
for the graceful length. Her fingers
gentle and burning, like rest.