Sway

Sit with me;
we'll watch the sun set—
it's solemn when we notice,
beautiful, yes, beautiful. I know it sets 

and that suggests something;
I know it has a falling look. Every day it goes 
down, every day 
over the last house into the smog. 

And true, light's dirty.
But breathe ahead, tiptoe back
on the boards and chatter. Sit,
listen—
 
I made it so you'd have a seat 
here this afternoon. Any afternoon. 
No swing but my Grandmother's porch.

We lived in her house three years 
while she was gone. Each day about five Mother'd 
step on the porch, hold the screen-door close, 
settle on one end nearest the roses.

Tell me you think of light. Please.

The swing's a figure but we figure more. 
What shines chains, gauges clinking,                
dulls seats? A swing's 

one moment, 
a constellation. There are others:
windowed sunlight, kids in the yard 
playing, the neighbor's yard…

Here: Let's stroll to the church. 
Behind the cemetery 
there are swings on the playground still.
Let's find one, push
each other, get sweaty, soar
over the fence,
make the metal bars shift and the chain-links ping

then let go: disappear…

Time's nothing but us—
the constant of our shoes
flickering till there's only light.
If you sigh I just hope it's enough

to sit in, be still, everything.

Logsplitting

1.
I was 13 or 12 when they first let me help. 

Previous Sundays I'd gather the split
pieces and toss them over Papa's tailgate;
this time I helped with the splitting.

The splitter was run off a red tractor.
I remember it was hard to start. 
Riding with Papa, I'd pretend I was plowing.

The splitter—it was pointed like a pencil—bit 
a little hole first then the spiral grooves gripped
and ate into one log after another. 

Your hands had to be far apart, wrapped
around each end of each log. 
You had to press with some weight
and hold firm or twisting would occur. 

And sometimes your wrist got chewed;
a glove's edge got slippery from sweat
and rolled down the hand. 

And your forearms got raw
from carrying the pieces.

2.
Mama seemed always beautiful. Hair 
stick-straight. Brown. 
Then everything was—

the hill, the pavement, 
mud that shook loose from our bikes
to fall on the patio, rust.

No one discovered me at seven;
no gangbangers lurked. The creek stank
but the worst that happened to big kids

was your Dad leaving, your Grandmother 
forgetting to feed herself…

a slow decade—not much missed. 
She said if we minded
we'd have suckers after the service.
 
3.
My lover lives in England.
I'll probably never see her.

Yes, I killed a deer at 15. No, 
it's unlikely I'll ever love you.

"Betrayal's not a mental category,"
I say to my daughter this afternoon. 

I'll kiss her in a minute, 
try to explain these broken crayons.

Modern Language

My father left me his best lines. 

I keep them in a box 
with his father's
and his father's father's. They are all here. 

One is on a blue slip, one is pink.
One is a pink carnation 

                  also a check-register 
in vinyl, a bicentennial quarter 

and of course, photographs… 

Here is a woman like you: 

"There is no fear 
of the grave today. I love you, 
I love you, 
no one sees…" 

                               I love you, 
take your clothes off

the room where you sit and think about it

Day's up and on the shelf. Books too.
Now night, revision of the one-act.
One-room cabin in the woods
that so-and-so builds,
patient, over a long growing season.

You say Who are you? now with doors open, 
wind rising, stalks not even waving.
Can't recognize a face; 
footsteps off the porch change, twist so 
even the weeds get restless.

Now it's not raining, because
you have to worry about that nightgown.
Swimming in the creek? as prelude to 
Here, lets help with those wet things.
Come, catch death. 

You clear the table so it slides easy 
down-wall, under the window.

When It Rains...

Short lines at the mall tonight,
low voter turnout; threats of a storm
check all but the staunchest. Survivors

get candles, get books; brew strong, 
mail-order coffee; take the radio 
down and tune to this station—

no, this one—
hope the batteries are still good.
This might be awhile.