The periodic pleasure
of small happenings
is upon us—
behind the stalls
at the farmer’s market
snow glinting in heaps,
a cardinal its chest
puffed out, bloodshod
above the piles of awnings,
passion’s proclivities;
you picking up a sweet potato
turning to me ‘This too?’—
query of tenderness
under the blown red wing.
Remember the brazen world?
Let’s find a room
with a window onto elms
strung with sunlight,
a cafe with polished cups,
darling coffee they call it,
may our bed be stoked
with fresh cut rosemary
and glinting thyme,
all herbs in due season
tucked under wild sheets:
fit for the conjugation of joy.
I have more love than ever.
Our kids have kids soon to have kids.
I need them. I need everyone
to come over to the house,
sleep on the floor, on the couches
in the front room. I need noise,
too many people in too small a space,
I need dancing, the spilling of drinks,
the loud pronouncements
over music, the verbal sparring,
the broken dishes, the wealth.
I need it all flying apart.
My friends to slam against me,
to hold me, to say they love me.
I need mornings to ask for favors
and forgiveness. I need to give,
have all my emotions rattled,
my family to be greedy,
to keep coming, to keep asking
and taking. I need no resolution,
just the constant turmoil of living.
Give me the bottom of the river,
all the unadorned, unfinished,
unpraised moments, one good turn
on the luxuriant wheel.
A few days ago, while walking (my hyperactive cream-colored dog), (my family member who likes to give orders) found a kitten abandoned under a bodhi tree. Two curious dogs were already circling and sniffing at the frightened little thing. (my family member who likes to give orders) pulled them away, scooped the kitten up and took them to the vet where they stayed for a few days.
This afternoon we went to bring the kitten home.
They’re a calico, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, with a thin coat that’s a little ragged and ears too big for their face. I made them a nest in the bathtub: a rope basket lined with fabric, a litter box, a water bowl and a small dish of wet food. When I’m not there, the kitten roams freely and without hesitation: climbing the edge of the tub, winding through the ferns, nosing under the alocasia and the snake plant. But the moment I appear, they shrink back behind the litter box. Just their blue-grey eyes, peering out.
They’re not used to me yet.
I already feel used to them.
I’ve started making small visits throughout the evening — so they can slowly learn the weight of my footsteps, the sound of the door opening, the running water. I talk softly in the room so they can get used to my voice. I’m glad they are quick and lively. I’m glad they finished most of their dinner tonight.
It’s been raining since evening. Now it’s late. And I’m sitting by the balcony door writing this. The wind coming in slow waves. Outside it’s wet and dark. In here, the kitten is probably dreaming under the ferns.