Poems

One more show
Just one to go
The final try
The final throw
One more chance
To nail this show.

Running through the hills of my imagination
Characters from my aunt and uncles' book shelves
Rafael Sabatini Alexander Dumas
James Fenimore Cooper
Authors I was told
I was too young to read
I would creep down the stairs
Flashlight in hand
Grab a forbidden book
Hard bound and hefty
I was soon transported
To pirate seas and musketeers
The ever resourceful frontiersman
Careful not to fall asleep
So as to return the purloined treasure
To its proper place on the shelf

A check in today's mail
paper symbol of wealth, wherewithal;
that, in turn, standing in for real things
things used, eaten, touched, seen

Money: distracting fear-born intermediary
O, for payment in the things themselves!
carrots and beans for hours of garden toil
a roof, walls, for house-building labor!

I want direct exchange, closer to the sources,
the meanings of things revealed—
the produce of work with the hands,
breath and muscles' heat made tangible

Barter a thousand flexes of the elbows
and 400 breaths for a bowl of apples
or a sturdy mug and a plate;
how many steps, how many liftings for a chair?

We chase the dead with words
Scribbled on blank spaces
In journals letters and cards
Spoken to relatives
Otherwise only known
Through holiday updates
Amnesia soon sets in
Among memories
As once clear events fade
There is no one to talk to
There is no one to listen
Photographs with forgotten names
In a carved wooden box
Once precious contents
For sale in a second hand shop

I approach the pharmacy checkout,
in my hand a white bracelet
inscribed in big black letters, a red
cartoon heart beside them.
I found it in the toy section,
shelved with others in pink and blue
that said "so hot", "don't bother", "over it".
the girl ringing me up is young,
bubbly, her bright face,
olive skin, full eyebrows,
lilting accent marking her as
an immigrant; her
cheerfulness, too.

she asks me
about the bracelet, as if
she has never seen the cheap,
rubbery bracelets carried by
her own store. "what is it?"
I hold it up so she can see.
"I'm learning French, and I thought
it might be a nice reminder."
"oh!" she says, smiling, her dark brows
arching just a little higher. "me too!"
I tell her where I'm taking a class,
encourage her to come. she says,
"I'm learning on my own. I just sit
at the computer." a beat, then:

"my husband says I shouldn't do it,
I'll never use it, it's a waste of time,
but it's so beautiful, I want to learn it,
I hope someday I can travel to France ..."
all the words spill out in a tumble, and I
tell her not to listen to him, go ahead,
learn what you want to learn.

we chat a bit more, I give her some
tips for where to find cheap French
books, ways to practice, remind her
about the local course I'm taking.
when I go, I make sure to tell her
"bonsoir", the way my teacher
says it at the end of class, and when
she looks quizzically at me,
translate it for her.

walking away, I want to
run back to her. I want to say:
I wish you well, I wish you
a happiness
at least as great
as your dreams allow.
but I keep going,
my heart bursting with it
like the cartoon heart
on the bracelet, this wild sudden love
for youth, for hope, for horizons not yet narrowed
by time, by all the things people will tell her
she cannot do. and in the car
I tear the bracelet from its package,
stretch it over my too-big hand,
turn it so the words face upwards
and I can read them
through my tears.
"je t'aime."