The Other Woman

I wrote this poem last month in response to a contest in The Paris Review .  It was inspired by the picture above and this interview with Elizabeth Bishop.

 

THE OTHER WOMAN

 

The day I won the Pulitzer Prize

the vegetable man in the market knows --

another woman won a bicycle.

It seems all his customers are lucky.

I see her flying down our mountain

in Brazil, in a fine yellow dress,

her long yellow scarf

riding the draft behind her.

Behind her, someone or

something is chasing her.

Her demon?  Her asthma?

The things she’s left undone?

She races ahead –

like I raced down our hill to tell you that day.

Finding no one at home, and nothing

but Oreos in your kitchen,

I ate two in celebration,

thinking of the vegetable man’s

other  lucky, winners.

 

Easter Hunt

There was a time when Easter meant
fancy hats, a new spring dress
and pictures after church
under cherry blossoms or crabapples.

More than once, she made us climb
young pink branches, so she, or Dad, or Uncle Ted,
could get just the right shot with the Polaroid.

She never knew how much we hated that.

Losing our footing in patent-leather white
tights snagging on branches,
invading bee-buzzing branches, pollen stinging
our eyes, how could she know,
how did she know what we would suffer,

and would suffer again
for one more Easter with Mom?

Triduum

It's hard not to believe
there is magic in three.

Three is the charm that turns
a couple into a family,
junk into a collection.
Three spins a joke on its punch line.

Three helps us locate what is essential.

The tree, the sound, and someone to hear it.
Truth, justice, and the American Way.
To boldly go - the third infinitive for the Enterprise.

Why did you wait
three days to come back?
The baby was hungry,
and I was worried sick.
Never mind.
Don't explain.
Allow me to believe
in the magic of three.

Good Friday

Maybe the sky doesn't have to darken,
break or cry out like the Hollywood films,
but something should happen,
something should happen to break up the day,
make us pause
wonder
hunger
catch our breath
skip a beat
something to mark
great sacrifice and loss.

It's hard to remember
that birth can be painful
that April can be cruel
that every spring I lose you
in days too sunny to see.

Holy Thursday

At times a certain sadness
fills a meal
shared with friends,
some who know, some
who could never guess
how much you love them,
how short the time is,
how simple acts have meaning.

You wish you could tell us,
try to tell us,
your heart breaking like bread.
Tell us.