Low Note
1
There is nowhere to begin.
I know nothing of rivers
except that this one seems soft
and kind from this distance.
I look everywhere for
kindness, a gentle, generous
reception for myself.
I was brought up to believe
the world should be fair, not
that I should have to make it so.
2
Tomorrow is our daughter’s
second birthday, and I am
far away. We tell ourselves
she won’t know the difference
when we celebrate in
two weeks, but
one never knows what sets
regret moaning, which
are the hooks that won’t come out.
3
You will have been a good
mother, anxious
and angry at all that has
hurt us, saving your
joy in fascicles in drawers.
4
I feel today that even
if we manage to move
the heavy stone, it will
still be a stone, sitting
heavy in someone’s path.
That’s nothing to teach
our children, though
could it have been something
my father once said?
5
In a plain mood like this
nothing looks like much more
than it is. That too
is nothing to teach, though
it may be close to the truth.
6
Magic ebbs away like time
ticking into a bucket.
Sometimes it blooms
momentarily again,
a sunset or whatever
draws milk back out
of the earth. I could
teach our children that
and let them find their own
disappointments.
7
I can try to teach our children
not knowing what they will
remember, a cold stare one
night an all-but-permanent
lesson and words little more
than fading bells. My father
once seized my arm in anger.
He was mostly kind, but
I never forget that small nut of pain.
8
The worst of me, screaming
your name like drawing
a little knife, is no less true
than the good husband I wish
you’d record in a poem.
It seems silly tonight to ask
that we celebrate the full
circle our cruelty makes
where it meets our calm.
9
A bird cuts harshly
through the gray sky, an emblem
in a language I strain
to recognize, pretend
to know some words in. The work
of life that is done at home,
I think, is mostly undone.
10
There is nowhere to end
either, except on a low
note, or so tonight
would have it, no knowing
for us what the reason is.