Poetry #1

Some Notes on Being Left Behind

First and foremost, remember that the flower beds
still have to be kept in anticipation of their return.
Some of them like roses, the others daisies.
Never plant them in the same box.
This will make the roots tangle, and you might
have a hard time pulling them up
when the season turns. Secondly, don't forget
to air the beds and mattresses. Especially
the quilted ones: you know the history
of every patch, every stitch sewn from memory
and tradition - this one a wedding wheel, that one
the harvest moon. Sometimes, you invent labels:
lost love, the quiet friend, coffee at three
in the morning, the last movie on TV. Remember
that the world does not center around you.
Keep the house tidy: sweep every morning
before the sunlight hits the floorboards, before you see
the dust motes swirl in the light, dancing upwards
underneath and over you, never to be caught
beneath the rug or behind the door. Everything
has to look the same. Try not to age - your complexion
must be exactly as those in the pictures taken
ten years ago. The clock will not affect the passage
of your time. For you, it is merely a suggestion, never
a fact of life. During sunset, always stand on the porch,
wearing your Sunday best, leaning against the whitewashed
wall. Comb your hair. Wait until the darkness begins.
Then go back inside the house, and prepare
a dinner for one. The nine o'clock news will begin soon.
The welcome will always vary from visitor to visitor.
You, on the other hand, are not allowed to change.

How to be Happy

It's a good question, actually,
wanting to know what can fill you
instead of drain you
of everything you've ever owned:
it begins with your smile being stripped
from your lips, and then the sheen
in your eyes when you see
your favorite flower bobbing
in the afternoon wind. And then
the sound of waves, an ocean
from your childhood memory
the times before your parents
separated. And then it slowly moves
down - your neck refuses to hold
your head up high, and your hands
forget how it feels
to clasp another hand. Your stomach
swells because of all that you refuse
to give up - that last piece of chicken,
the loss of a lover, that last apartment.
And then the feeling travels lower,
to your legs wobbling because of the weight
of permanence and transience
pushing and pulling like insistent
ropes, yanking you from side to side;
your feet weak webbing of bone and flesh,
veins thin blue rivers pretending
to lead somewhere other than here.