Her dress shimmered tiny pink and green flower gardens

like a tablecloth in a rural twentieth century 

American farmhouse, something tender

you never saw since you were a child too,

pleats and folds along the bodice,

tucks and stitchery made with a patience

that barely abides anymore, her hair tightly braided

and coiled in circles against her perfect head

with tiny red ribbons at elegant intervals,

but when you said, Memories, her face fell.

She whispered, we left them, we had to 

leave everything in our house, 

my cabinet, my doll, my books,

my pepper plant, my pillow.

Nothing now we knew before.

But we have a few pictures.

My memories live in my mother’s phone. 

 

Sorrow, O sorrow, moves like a loose flock
of blackbirds sweeping over the metal roofs, over the birches, 
                    and the miles. 
    One wave after another, then another, then the sudden 

                                                            opening
where the feathered swirl, illumined by dusk, parts to reveal 
the weeping 
                     heart of all things.

^{A translation of Konstantin Cavafy’s “I was asking about the quality” 
 
         For Felicia, Kipper, Oscar, and Kevin. 
         And for Ted and Barron, in memoriam}

I came out 
of the office

where I had been 
hired in another shitty, low-paying job

(My weekly pay was nothing more 
than fifty dollars a week, most from tips).

With my waitress shift over, I came out 
at seven and walked slowly. I fell out

into the street, handsome, but compelling. 
It felt as if I had finally reached the full potential

of my own beauty (I’d turned 
sixteen the previous month).

I kept wandering all around 
the newly-cemented streets,

the quiet and old black alleys, past 
the cemetery leading to our home.

But then, as I’d paused in front of a clothing store
where some skirts were on sale

(polyester, cheap), I saw this face 
inside—a girl—whose eyes urged me

to come inside. So, I entered—
pretending I was looking

for embroidered handkerchiefs.
I was asking about the quality—

of her handkerchiefs—how much
they cost—in a whispery voice breaking open

with desire—and accordingly came her
shop-girl answers—rote, memorized—but beneath her

words, her eyes kept ablaze: Yes.
Mine, too, were a psalm of consent.

We kept talking about the handkerchiefs,
but all the while our one and only goal was this:

to brush each other’s hands—quickly—
over the handkerchiefs—to lean

our faces and lips
nearer to each other, as if

by accident. We moved quickly,
cautiously, yet deliberately—

in case her grandfather—sitting in 
the back—were to suspect something.

This afternoon, discomfortable dead
Drift into doorways, lounge, across the bridge, 
Whittling memory at the water’s edge, 
And watch. This is what you inherited. 

Random they are, but hairy, for they chafe
All in their eye, enlarging like a slide;
Spectral as men once met or crucified, 
And kind. Until the sun sets you are safe. 

A prey to your most awkward reflection, 
Loose-limbed before the fire you sit appalled. 
And think that by your error you have called
These to you. Look! the light will soon be gone. 

Excited see from the window the men fade 
In the twilight; reappear two doors down. 
Suppose them well acquainted with the town
Who built it. Do you fumble in the shade? 

The key was lost, remember, yesterday, 
Or stolen—undergraduates perhaps;
But all men are their colleagues, and eclipse
Very like dusk. It is too late to pray. 

There was a time crepuscular was mild, 
The hour for tea, acquaintances, and fall 
Away of all day’s difficulties, all 
Discouragement. Weep, you are not a child. 

The equine hour rears, no further friend, 
Intolerant, foam-lathered, pregnant with 
Mysterious grave watchers in their wrath
Let into tired Troy. You are near the end. 

Midsummer Common loses its last gold, 
And grey is there. The sun slants down behind 
A certain cinema, and the world is blind
But more dangerous. It is growing cold. 

Light all the lights, heap wood upon the fire
To banish shadow. Draw the curtains tight. 
But sightless eyes will lean through and wide night 
Darken this room of yours. As you desire. 

Think on your sins with all intensity. 
The men are on the stair, they will not wait. 
There is a paper-knife to penetrate
Heart & guilt together. Do it quickly.