Güd wrtr

(for Billy Collins, author of the poem,
“Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes,”
on the 138th anniversary of her death,
May 15, 1886 )

You will want to know
that she said yes every time,
that she undressed him, too—
no shy maid, that one—
that, no matter how much he
wished it wasn’t so,
she undid him in ways
his poet’s pen could not record,
and she gave her hope and passion
not only to the page—
as has long been thought.

Should you go to Amherst,
take the tour of her yellow house,
wide-eyed with its green shutters.
Listen to a doe-eyed docent
relate anecdotes of the petite
recluse who penned poems
on scraps of paper and stuck them
in the voluminous pockets
of her demure white dress.

Stand in her bedroom aerie
where, after she died, her sister
did as the poet asked—burned the letters—
but for some reason spared the poems.

Take in the tiny bed and imagine
him there with her—
their twin souls all sighs and dashes—
singing the tunes without the words—
never stopping at all.

•••

“Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes,” Billy Collins
Poetry magazine, February 1998

(for Georgann)

You got me in the chair the first time,
my feet marinating in a small pond
of warm, swirling water.

This is gonna change your life,
you assured me.

Painted toenails? I wondered.

The from-the-knees-down massage,
you said, and yes, polka dot toes.

Sometimes I go solo
as a woman named Mandy
scrubs my calloused feet baby fine,

her back curled into a comma
over my lower limbs as I give
thanks for her strong hands

kneading my calves into
submission. Told ya, you
whisper from your spot

in the firmament, as the big
chair’s magic fingers work
their way up my spine.

Mandy’s apron reads,
“I can’t change the world,
but I can change your nails.”

She does far more than that,
her sure hands polka dotting
my toes a warm bubble gum pink,

which you would admire, though
you’d choose something bolder
for yours—maybe Big Apple red—

both of us wiggling our tootsies
after women like Mandy set us
firmly back on our cleaned feet,

our worlds brightened, if not
changed, by such a professional
paint job, such kind attention

delivered with a wisp of color.

(for Don DeVorss)

The man with the donated heart that
powers him in his second life tells me,

Succulents are survivors,
and I say, Like you.

And he grins, the once-upon-a-time
boy who rode the same bus as I

to our rural elementary school,
the one who played basketball

at our high school as I directed
the pep band at home games,

the two of us separated for decades,
friends again in our late years.

The man with the donated heart
nurtures succulents at home,

has worked with plants all his
adult life, who, like the tender

growing things he tends, is
a powerful survivor. He gives me

three precious specimens in
gorgeous pots—each an exquisite

living sculpture—and I drive them
home as if I have infants in the car,

aware of their fragile beauty, their
inherent toughness I cannot see,

grateful for the gift of trust from
the man who carries the beating

heart of another in his strong body,
one that matches his generous soul.

•••

With thanks to Don and Julie DeVorss for the gift of the lovely succulents!

is that none of this has been inflicted
upon you so that you’ll learn a lesson

or grow a tougher skin or somehow
become a better human. In fact, if it’d

been up to us, we’d have paved
your path with roses (or whatever

sweet-smelling thing catches
your fancy) and walked with you,

holding your hand when it wanted
holding. All that bad stuff, we didn’t

want to see any of it happen—the
terrible bosses, the loves unrequited

or just plain gone wrong, the P.E.
teacher who failed you because you

couldn’t catch or hit a ball. Or far worse.
We ached for your hurt little heart.

We really did. And all we could do
was send love your way in a form

that we thought you might receive
it—puppy kisses from the family

beagle, someone offering you
a listen, maybe even a hand to hold,

and again with the perky flowers.
We know that you missed a lot

of what we hoped you’d see or
hear or feel—so much birdsong,

the surprise of a kind smile when
you didn’t expect one. Bad stuff

happens in your world. You people
sicken and struggle and die.

We’re sorry about that. But look
at so many of you who offer each

other a kind word or a hug, a bit
of music or a painting that lifts you,

a cup of tea and a listen.
We didn’t create that. You did.

All of you marvelously flawed,
confused, complex humans.

You did that.

How often people tell me,
You’re so lucky to have your mom,
which crosses my mind on

Momdays when I pick her up
at the house by the lake in her car
since she no longer drives,

as I deposit her at various
appointments, run to the store,
back to her house, put away

the purchases, sit with her skittish
kitty who adores her and is leery
of most others, then fly back

to pick her up—for lunch, for
the next appointment, get the
car washed and deliver her home

where, as the season swings warm,
I’ll water the patio pots ripe with
green and blooming things, as my

sister does on her Momdays, and
so much more—bringing her new
grandson to see his great grandma.

“Yes, I am,” I tell people, so very
fortunate to return in some small
measure the carting around,

the feeding and caring she did
for my sister and me all our young
lives, the one who made us,

the one who taught me to drive,
who still gives directions about
where to turn, which I don’t mind

since so much has changed about
the place where she and our father
plopped us 58 years ago,

next to the lake where we skied,
where she still lives, where she
raised us lucky, lucky girls.

The things you learn
at a routine physical—

how many times your heart
expands and contracts,
how pressured it is,
fueling your body,

how your lungs sound
to the man with the
stethoscope,

and, on a wall chart
of the ear, nose and throat,
discovering that your
larynx, closed, is in
phonation,
and, open, is in
inspiration—

spiritus—the breath
Hawaiians call ha—

drawing inspiration
as you speak, as your
lungs fill and empty, push
air into the squeezebox
and out through the
trachea,

to infuse life by breathing,

as that old, reliable
ticker lub-dubs along.

Spring winds rose this morning,
clearing the sky of clouds,
snapping branches newly greened.

Late in the day I walk among
the leavings, registering them
by name—black walnut,

Japanese maple, Douglas fir—
sorry that they have been felled
so early in their lives.

I know this well: We are not
all designed for longevity,
And these are just parts of

larger beings whose souls
appear unscathed. Still, there
is grief for the parts of us

that give way sooner than we
would like. We hope to make it
to our ends carrying everything

we came with, mourning what
is lost along the way, no matter
how much we wish to leave

the world intact.

(flying home from NYC)

Every time
I marvel at the cloud blanket
unraveling so far below

to reveal the patches
underneath the underneath—
a quilted world

stitched with invisible
thread outlining a fresh
green here,

a diamond-sparkled
rectangle there, studded
with sun sprinkles.

We are so close up here
in the far above
the far below,

where earthlings’ feet
walk on the planet we
all call home.

This thin air we borrow
for a time, sitting close
to strangers,

smile to make room,
lend a hand with a bag,
dish out thank you’s

like sweets, come
together as a living
quilt, an assortment

of fabrics, loosely
fastened for several hours
in a kind of harmonic

convergence—the kind
we often find so difficult
to give each other once

our feet touch the ground.

So many sit on benches
surrounding the circular mosaic,
companion spirits to the one
whose spirit certainly circles here—

Imagine all the people—

the ones who come to sit in the center
for a photo, the ones who stand on
the almost forty-year-old tiles,
his age when he was felled—

some have gone and some remain—

across the street by an assassin
whose name is rarely remembered.
But here in Strawberry Fields the one
who wrote the song and sang it

has never left. And the man now
standing with guitar, singing
to the faithful, There are
places I’ll remember all my life,

plucks the strings of my heart
amid this group of strangers who sit
with common purpose—give peace
a chance—on a sweetly sunny

May day—I know I’ll often stop
and think about them—the dead,
the living, the friends, the lovers,
with us here, now:

In my life, I’ve loved them all.

(In memory of Lorraine Hansberry and Eleanor Roosevelt, who
each lived by Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village)

•••

After a week of living
in their neighborhood—
albeit as a visitor—

I walk by the buildings
they once called home,
the playwright and

the first lady/United
Nations delegate,
and I imagine

myself stopping in
for tea with Mrs. R.,
talking writing with

Miss H.—though
they didn’t live here
in the same era.

But oh, for the chance
to leap through time
and present myself

to women I admire for
their groundbreaking
achievements, perhaps

stepping outside with
the ladies to walk
the park leafing greenly

in early May, stopping
to admire tulips and
azaleas. Look at that,

I’d say. Have you ever
seen such a stunning
spring? And I’d watch

them smile at the eager
Californian so taken
with the place they

called home.