(for Sandra)
I felt all the love of the universe
envelop me, the beloved,
by the beloved,
all the beloveds here and gone
surrounding us in that embrace
of one who blesses others
with generosity of spirit,
with lovingkindness, and, in sharing
that with me, replenishing what
I imagined had been lost,
but, of course, has always held
me, will always hold me,
till our souls float away
when our bodies no longer
need them.
Amen.
Gene [Hackman] told me he only needed four instructions
from directors. Louder. Softer. Faster. Slower.
—Dan Ackroyd, Feb. 27, 2025
•••
When you think about it, they’re among the best
directions anyone can give—and sure,
now you’re thinking about sex, and sure,
they work for that, too—but imagine for
a moment a nothing-special interaction
between two people, whether in life
or on film, and think tempo, think volume,
think how softer/slower lands on the ear
compared to louder/slower or certainly
faster/louder. Couldn’t we all lower
the decibels in our overheated dialogue,
drop the threatening tone, deliver
kinder words clearly and at just the right
pitch? Might your icy shell melt a little
if someone you’ve classified as antagonist
murmured a soft and slow “I hear you”
at just the right moment and then
proceeded to truly listen? Might you
return the favor and begin to watch
the gulf between you and your
former foe imperceptibly, impossibly,
start to shrink?
(for Lauren Just Giel)
Our mother’s drawers and cupboards,
every one an archeological dig—
the farther in we go, the deep
the dive into decades past.
Her pristine, unfolded nurse’s
caps lie ready for the job she quit
just before I was born. The
surprise of a gift, I imagine,
given at a baby shower, which,
she, heavy with me, must have
opened, laughed at, perhaps held
up to the assembled women, then
modeled, tying the joke apron
around the two of us.
“Expectant mother,” it says, on
still-bright orange cotton
the color of fresh lava decorated
with cartoons of a very PG woman,
captions joking among other things,
about the possibilities of twins.
I was the first of two, my womb mate
sister-to-be taking up residence in that
space a couple of years later. And though
that sister who unearthed this treasure
and I doubt that the recipient ever
actually wore the apron, we now
look at each other and grin,
knowing instantly who must
inherit it—the next generation
in the family—her daughter,
my niece—expecting her
second child, a daughter, whose
great grandma has left her
such a legacy of love.
The pale pink ones by the garage, the bush
deeply pruned by the next generation
who will soon call your house home.
Instead of the great haystack of shubbery,
it is now an artful bit of sculpture,
its perfect blossoms gazing west
into late February’s gentle sun.
I would’ve missed them had I not
been walking through the utility room,
carrying bags of your former belongings
to my car, when I felt you and Father
so close behind me, as if your slender fingers
rested lightly on my right shoulder,
his thicker ones on my left, whispering,
“Out there, honey—look out there.”
So I did, and we all lingered, admiring
the miracle of such beauty in winter,
just two days after the 68th anniversary
of your wedding, the sweet blooms
pulling me outside to study them closely,
their petals, I realized as I touched a few,
the same color as your wedding dress
still hanging in what I will always
think of as your house.
(for Barbara in Lane #2)
I am the visiting one who has flown in
and landed with a gentle whoosh
in this five-lane pond, one who
some might perceive as an interloper,
one who might need to be chased
off by other floating fowl who
think of this bit of liquid as theirs.
But here, this kind one bobbing
in her familiar spot welcomes me,
the out-of-towner, slipping into
the blue of an early morning.
I feel my body incline into
weightlessness again and lean
into the aqueous arms that hold me,
that support us all like a longtime,
unseen friend.
•••
Thanks to Barbara in Lane #2 and Terri in Lane #3
for including me in their early morning Shadow HIlls
lap pool swims.
As the murky horizon gives way
to a watercolor sky out the windshield,
me riding shotgun, Terri wheeling us
into what’s become her spot in
the empty parking lot.
We might have the big pool all to
ourselves this morning, Terri says,
for our 45-minute 6 a.m. slot in
Lanes #2 and #3.
And we pretty much do, as Terri jogs up
Lane 3, and I breaststroke my way down
Lane 2, while outside the big windows
today blooms into the color of a new
duckling.
Two early mornings ago from my spot
in the pool I watched the sky flush
soft pink, much like my cheeks when,
as a freshman in high school, the tall boy
I had a crush on slowly turned to look
over his shoulder at me four rows
behind him on the bus.
Now goggled in the pool, I scan my
my brain cells trying to retrieve that
boy’s name, which floats away on
the small wake stirred up by my
flutter-kicking feet. Later, in
the shower, his name continues
to elude me, though I can make out
the fuzzy contours of his young face
as Terri and I head out to breakfast
before 8 a.m.
It’s still not my time of day, but oh,
look at that soft light making landfall
on the tawny mountains ringing
this desert valley. I can hear my
beloved far away at home chuckling.
Who are you, and what have you
done with Janis?
And then it comes to me:
His name was Mitch. Is Mitch.
I hope he’s still out in the world,
rising into the day, as safe
and warm and loved as I so
swimmingly am.
Sun City Shadow HIlls pool, dawn / Photo: Jan Haag
My hands are powerful healing tools
They know exactly where to apply
their healing energy. I handle my life
with love.
—affirmation on the bulletin board in
my mother’s home treatment room
•••
Again and again, on sheets of paper
I find in her handwriting—notes and
reflections for literally hundreds
of classes she took as a holistic healer—
she squirrels away words like energy and
healing like nourishing nuggets stored
for retrieval in bleak moments.
Love bubbles up again and again—
the wish to live a loving life, to create love,
to be a gentle and kind person, which
she could be with so many she served,
but far less so with my father,
my sister and me.
She never felt loved enough,
appreciated enough, listened to enough.
She found it easier to explode and harder
to summon patience and kindness.
Yet now that she’s gone, I search for
her gentler side, so elusive in life,
in notes she took for hundreds of classes
and seminars, her writing on decades-old
pages in a hand that I can still decipher,
or in a quote tacked to the bulletin
board in the room that had once been mine
in that house of chronic angers—
the aspiration to walk lovingly
though the world.
I hope that, nearing her end, we gave
her what she so craved, that, as she
she slipped away, not wanting to
leave the body that could no longer
house her soul,
that what she felt from us—from
those who’d gone before, from
the vastness of the universe she
so embraced, what she’d longed for
all her long life—
turned out to be only kindness,
that all was forgiven, her rancor
vanquished, leaving nothing
but the love to carry her
into mystery.
•••
In memory of my mother and father on the 68th anniversary of their wedding.
Dewy, Dewy, Dewy, do you love me?
Dewy, Dewy, Dewy, do you care?
Dewy, Dewy, are you thinking of me?
Dewy, Dewy, will you still be there?
—1970s pop song
And he is there—Dewy remembers me,
who visited him last year—coming
to drape his long, lanky form down
mine, gaze into my eyes with the soulful
look of a momentary lover, making me
feel adored, if not forever, at least
in the moment.
I know that he will tire of this, remove
himself to another part of the house,
search for the human female to whom
he’s truly devoted. I get it—she’s
the kitty mom here, my friend
who’s invited me to stay.
And you gotta love a guy
who loves his mom, because
that weighty feline blanket draped
over me for even a little while
offers the kind of warmth that,
if nothing else, sends each of us—
purring right along with him—
into a sweet cat nap.
•••
With thanks to Terri and Al Wolf, for inviting me to visit them in the California desert,
and to Dewy and Quince, most excellent feline hosts.
(after Nikita Gill)
Well, first, it should be “fewer,” as I told way too many
college students who truly couldn’t care less. But
short is the point. Love short. Trying to write shorter.
A lifelong task.
(for Terri Wolf)
I step into the warm indoor pool
as, outside, the desert dawn
begins to bloom.
I’m 500 miles from my rainy-
cold home, staying instead
with my friend who jogs down
Lane #3 every winter morning at 6.
Though I am a far-from-early gal,
I’m a when-in-Rome one,
so I rise in the deep dark,
that time just before the day
becomes day, because
shoving off from the side
of the pool in Lane #2, head
down, ready to pull and kick
and glide places my older
body in its element—
weightless and floating—
as Sir Issac’s third law
of motion attests—that
by pushing the water
with arms and feet,
the water pushes back
in an equal and opposite
direction, sending me
forward. And so life
lifts us as we progress,
as we unexpectedly,
blissfully
float.
Güd wrtr 