A Raft of Grief

“The raft that means ‘a great number’ is not related at all to the raft that carries people or their possessions in the water. The two words are homonyms…” —Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins

If only there were a boat,
low and long and loaded
with all we’d brought or built:
the fatal inattentions,
anxieties and tics
that time had sanctified,
our good and bad intentions,
rages, lapses, and aches.
If only it were that easy,
to stand only ankle-
deep in the sullied water
hoisting our shared cargo,
sinking no further beneath
its weight. If only the boat
did not need a rower;
we’d push it off together
then wade to opposite banks
absolved at last, forever,
buoyant, watching it go.

Introduction to Mycology

Shiitake, velvet foot, hen of the woods, wood 
ear, cloud ear, slippery jack, brown wreaths

of Polish borowik dried and hanging 
in the stalls of a Krakow market—all these

were years away from the room where I lay 
once, studying the contours of your sex

as if it were some subterranean species 
I’d never encounter again. Because I hadn’t

yet tasted oyster—not even portobello— 
when I thought mushroom, I meant the common white

or button, the ones my mother bought for salads 
or served in butter beside my father’s steak.

First taste of love, or toxic look-alike, 
there was your stalk and cap, the earth and dark,

our hunger, wonder, and need. Even now, 
I can’t identify exactly what

we were, or why, some twenty years later,
learning you lay dying—were in fact

already dead, suspended by machines if not
 belief—I thought first of your living flesh,

the size and shape of you. My amanita 
phalloides, that room was to exist forever,

as a field guide or mossy path, even 
if as we foraged, we did not once look back.

Shocks and Changes

Summoned at three, I soothe my daughter’s cries
and, turning back toward bed, turn off her light.
Out of the dark, a galaxy appears,
pale stars scattered across the plaster skies
by some other child who thought this room at night
would be his always. The moons, the meteors—
all his hours spent peeling and arranging—
for two years now have hung above my head
entirely unnoticed. The old wives’ tale
says all the stars whose light we see are dead,
but that’s not true. We fail to see them changing
as they change. And on this closer, human scale
and present tense, this room, this child I’ve kissed,
this night will always and never quite exist.

Médée Furieuse, 1838

Furious Medea, Delacroix called her,
but I can see no rage, unless we count
her breasts, twin weapons pointing fiercely
at us, or the hand clenching a dagger,
its shadow slicing her nearest child’s leg.
There is disorder in her hair and robes,
but her face, caught in profile, reveals what we
might read as sadness, a jaw too soft for anger.
The painting’s tension lies in the lack of fury,
in the illusion that she might be guarding
the boys, in our knowledge that she is not.
And the children in her arms—they know it, too.
The one half-hugged, half-throttled squirms away.
The other is folded in a pose so close
to the surrender of nursing he seems at peace
almost, but for his eye, open wide—
and looking directly at us.
                                              How many times
have I seen that look, the flash of fear
on my young daughter’s face when I have raged
at her or some small thing? It passes, the fury
and the terror—my daughter puts on socks;
the driver yields—but I’m left shaken, a stranger.
Maybe all mothers murder their children’s
innocence. In the painting, Medea holds
her boys so close they’re one body again,
two cords she must cut. The children have no choice
but to love the hand that holds the knife.