Otherwise Read online

  LAST POEMS

  from Otherwise (1996) and A Hundred White Daffodils (1999)

  Happiness

  There’s just no accounting for happiness,​

  or the way it turns up like a prodigal​

  who comes back to the dust at your feet​

  having squandered a fortune far away.

  And how can you not forgive?

  You make a feast in honor of what

  was lost, and take from its place the finest

  garment, which you saved for an occasion

  you could not imagine, and you weep night and

  to know that you were not abandoned,

  that happiness saved its most extreme form

  for you alone.

  No, happiness is the uncle you never​

  knew about, who flies a single-engine plane​

  onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes​

  into town, and inquires at every door​

  until he finds you asleep midafternoon​

  as you so often are during the unmerciful​

  hours of your despair.

  It comes to the monk in his cell.

  It comes to the woman sweeping the street​

  with a birch broom, to the child​

  whose mother has passed out from drink.

  It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing​

  a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,

  and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots​

  in the night.

  It even comes to the boulder​

  in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,​

  to rain falling on the open sea,​

  to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

  Mosaic of the Nativity: Serbia, Winter 1993

  On the domed ceiling God​

  is thinking:

  I made them my joy,​

  and everything else I created​

  I made to bless them.

  But see what they do!

  I know their hearts​

  and arguments:

  “We’re descended from​

  Cain. Evil is nothing new,​

  so what does it matter now​

  if we shell the infirmary,​

  and the well where the fearful​

  and rash alike must​

  come for water?”

  God thinks Mary into being.​

  Suspended at the apogee​

  of the golden dome,​

  she curls in a brown pod,​

  and inside her the mind​

  of Christ, cloaked in blood,​

  lodges and begins to grow.

  Man Eating

  The man at the table across from mine​

  is eating yogurt. His eyes, following​

  the progress of the spoon, cross briefly​

  each time it nears his face. Time,

  and the world with all its principalities,​

  might come to an end as prophesied​

  by the Apostle John, but what about​

  this man, so completely present

  to the little carton with its cool,​

  sweet food, which has caused no animal​

  to suffer, and which he is eating​

  with a pearl-white plastic spoon.

  Man Waking

  The room was already light when​

  he awoke, and his body curled​

  like a grub suddenly exposed​

  when something dislodges a stone.​

  Work. He was more than an hour​

  late. Let that pass, he thought.

  He pulled the covers over his head.​

  The smell of his skin and hair​

  offended him. Now he drew his legs​

  up a little more, and sent​

  his forehead down to meet his knees.​

  His knees felt cool.

  A surprising amount of light​

  came through the blanket. He could​

  easily see his hand. Not dark enough,​

  not the utter darkness he desired.

  Man Sleeping

  Large flakes of snow fall slowly, far​

  apart, like whales who cannot find mates​

  in the vast blue latitudes.

  Why do I think of the man asleep​

  on the grassy bank outside the Sackler​

  Museum in Washington?

  It was a chill​

  afternoon. He lay, no doubt, on everything​

  he owned, belly-down, his head twisted​

  awkwardly to the right, mouth open​

  in abandon.

  He looked​

  like a child who has fallen asleep​

  still dressed on the top of the covers,​

  or like Abel, broken, at his brother’s feet.

  Cesarean

  The surgeon with his unapologetic​

  blade parted darkness, revealing​

  day. Then from her large clay​

  he drew toward his masked​

  face my small clay. The clatter,​

  the white light, the vast freedom​

  were terrible. Outside in, oh, inside​

  out, and why did everybody shout?

  Surprise

  He suggests pancakes at the local diner,​

  followed by a walk in search of mayflowers,​

  while friends convene at the house​

  bearing casseroles and a cake, their cars​

  pulled close along the sandy shoulders​

  of the road, where tender ferns unfurl​

  in the ditches, and this year’s budding leaves​

  push last year’s spectral leaves from the tips​

  of the twigs of the ash trees. The gathering​

  itself is not what astounds her, but the casual​

  accomplishment with which he has lied.

  No

  The last prayer had been said,​

  and it was time to turn away​

  from the casket, poised on its silver​

  scaffolding over the open hole​

  that smelled like a harrowed field.

  And then I heard a noise that seemed​

  not to be human. It was more like wind​

  among leafless trees, or cattle lowing​

  in a distant barn. I paused with one​

  hand on the roof of the car,

  while the sound rose in pitch, then​

  cohered into language: No, don’t do this​

  to me! No, no . . . / And each of us​

  stood where we were, unsure​

  whether to stay, or leave her there.

  Drawing from the Past

  Only Mama and I were at home.

  We ate tomato sandwiches​

  with sweeps of mayonnaise​

  on indifferent white bread.

  Surely it was September,​

  my older brother at school.

  The tomatoes were fragrant​

  and richly red, perhaps the last​

  before frost.

  I was alert to the joy of eating​

  sandwiches alone with Mama, bare​

  feet braced on the underpinnings​

  of the abraded kitchen table.

  Once I’d made a mark in the wood​

  by pressing too hard as I traced​

  the outline of a horse.

  I was no good at drawing—from life,​

  or from imagination. My brother​

  was good at it, and I was alert​

  to that, too.

  The Call

  I lunged out of sleep toward the ringing​

  phone, from a dream in which, carrying​

  plastic bags of her inhalers,

  I struggled
up the icy drive.

  Still startled, I sit up in bed​

  in the dark with my glasses on.

  The clock’s blue spectral glow says 4:13.​

  He’s speeding now to the nursing home​

  with the clarity that fear alone​

  confers, to see his mother, it may be,​

  for the last time. Rain has fallen

  all night, and the intimate​

  smells of wet earth press through​

  the screen. A sudden stir of air moves​

  the sere late summer leaves, sounding​

  for a moment like still more rain.

  In the Nursing Home

  She is like a horse grazing​

  a hill pasture that someone makes​

  smaller by coming every night​

  to pull the fences in and in.

  She has stopped running wide loops,​

  stopped even the tight circles.

  She drops her head to feed; grass​

  is dust, and the creekbed’s dry.

  Master, come with your light​

  halter. Come and bring her in.

  How Like the Sound

  How like the sound of laughing weeping​

  is. I wasn’t sure until I saw your face—​

  your eyes squeezed shut, and the big​

  hot tears spurting out.

  There you sat, upright, in your mother’s​

  reclining chair, tattered from the wear​

  of many years. Not since childhood​

  had you wept this way, head back, throat

  open like a hound. Of course the howling​

  had to stop. I saw you add call realtor​

  to your list before your red face​

  vanished behind the morning Register.

  Eating the Cookies

  The cousin from Maine, knowing​

  about her diverticulitis, left out the nuts,​

  so the cookies weren’t entirely to my taste,​

  but they were good enough; yes, good enough.

  Each time I emptied a drawer or shelf​

  I permitted myself to eat one.

  I cleared the closet of silk caftans

  that slipped easily from clattering hangers,

  and from the bureau I took her nightgowns

  and sweaters, financial documents

  neatly cinctured in long gray envelopes,

  and the hairnets and peppermints she’d tucked among

  Lucite frames abounding with great-grandchildren,

  solemn in their Christmas finery.

  Finally the drawers were empty,

  the bags full, and the largest cookie,

  which I had saved for last, lay

  solitary in the tin with a nimbus

  of crumbs around it. There would be no more

  parcels from Portland. I took it up

  and sniffed it, and before eating it,

  pressed it against my forehead, because

  it seemed like the next thing to do.

  Spring Evening

  Again the thrush affirms​

  both dusk and dawn. The frog​

  releases spawn in the warm​

  inlet of the pond. Ferns​

  rise with the crescent moon,​

  and the old farmer​

  waits to sow his corn.

  Prognosis

  I walked alone in the chill of dawn​

  while my mind leapt, as the teachers

  of detachment say, like a drunken​

  monkey. Then a gray shape, an owl,

  passed overhead. An owl is not​

  like a crow. A crow makes convivial

  chuckings as it flies,

  but the owl flew well beyond me

  before I heard it coming, and when it​

  settled, the bough did not sway.

  Afternoon at MacDowell

  On a windy summer day the well-dressed

  trustees occupy the first row

  under the yellow and white striped canopy.

  Their drive for capital is over,

  and for a while this refuge is secure.

  Thin after your second surgery, you wear​

  the gray summer suit we bought eight​

  years ago for momentous occasions​

  in warm weather. My hands rest in my lap,​

  under the fine cotton shawl embroidered​

  with mirrors that we bargained for last fall​

  in Bombay, unaware of your sickness.

  The legs of our chairs poke holes​

  in the lawn. The sun goes in and out​

  of the grand clouds, making the air alive​

  with golden light, and then, as if heaven’s​

  spirits had fallen, everything’s somber again.

  After music and poetry we walk to the car.

  I believe in the miracles of art, but what​

  prodigy will keep you safe beside me,​

  fumbling with the radio while you drive​

  to find late innings of a Red Sox game?

  Fat

  The doctor says it’s better for my spine​

  this way—more fat, more estrogen.

  Well, then! There was a time when a wife’s​

  plump shoulders signified prosperity.

  These days my fashionable friends​

  get by on seaweed milkshakes,

  Pall Malls, and vitamin pills. Their clothes​

  hang elegantly from their clavicles.

  As the evening news makes clear

  the starving and the besieged maintain

  the current standard of beauty without effort.

  Whenever two or three gather together​

  the talk turns dreamily to sausages,​

  purple cabbages, black beans and rice,​

  noodles gleaming with cream, yams, and plums,​

  and chapati fried in ghee.

  The Way Things Are in Franklin

  Even the undertaker is going out​

  of business. And since the dime store closed,​

  we can’t get parakeets on Main Street​

  anymore, or sleeveless gingham smocks​

  for keeping Church Fair pie off the ample​

  fronts of the strong, garrulous wives​

  of pipefitters and road agents.

  The hardware’s done for too.

  Yesterday,

  a Sunday, I saw the proprietors breaking​

  up shop, the woman struggling with half​

  a dozen bicycle tires on each arm,​

  like bangle bracelets, the man balancing​

  boxes filled with Teflon pans. The windows​

  had been soaped to frustrate curiosity,​

  or pity, or that cheerless satisfaction​

  we sometimes feel when others fail.

  Dutch Interiors

  for Caroline

  Christ has been done to death

  in the cold reaches of northern Europe

  a thousand thousand times.

  Suddenly bread

  and cheese appear on a plate

  beside a gleaming pewter beaker of beer.

  Now tell me that the Holy Ghost​

  does not reside in the play of light​

  on cutlery!

  A woman makes lace,

  with a moist-eyed spaniel lying

  at her small shapely feet.

  Even the maid with the chamber pot​

  is here; the naughty, red-cheeked girl. . . .

  And the merchant’s wife, still​

  in her yellow dressing gown​

  at noon, dips her quill into India ink​

  with an air of cautious pleasure.

  Reading Aloud to My Father

  I chose the book haphazard​

  from the shelf, but with Nabokov’s first​

  sentence I knew it wasn’t the thing​

  to read to a dying man:

  The cra
dle rocks above an abyss, it began,​

  and common sense tells us that our existence​

  is but a brief crack of light​

  between two eternities of darkness.

  The words disturbed both of us immediately,​

  and I stopped. With music it was the same—​

  Chopin’s Piano Concerto—he asked me​

  to turn it off. He ceased eating, and drank​

  little, while the tumors briskly appropriated​

  what was left of him.

  But to return to the cradle rocking. I think​

  Nabokov had it wrong. This is the abyss.​

  That’s why babies howl at birth,​

  and why the dying so often reach​

  for something only they can apprehend.

  At the end they don’t want their hands​

  to be under the covers, and if you should put​

  your hand on theirs in a tentative gesture​

  of solidarity, they’ll pull the hand free;​

  and you must honor that desire,​

  and let them pull it free.

  Woman, Why Are You Weeping?

  The morning after the crucifixion,

  Mary Magdalene came to see the body​

  of Christ. She found the stone​

  rolled away from an empty tomb. Two​

  figures dressed in white asked her,

  “Woman, why are you weeping?”

  “Because,” she replied, “they have​

  taken away my Lord, and I don’t know​

  where they have laid him.”

  Returned from long travel, I sit

  in the familiar, sun-streaked pew, waiting

  for the bread and wine of Holy Communion.

  The old comfort does not rise in me, only​

  apathy and bafflement.

  India, with her ceaseless​