I Want to Tell You

I know it
doesn’t matter, no matter
how I spin it.
And I suspect
you don’t need
to hear it. And I suspect
you don’t want
to hear it. But I want
to tell you–and I
am just sad enough, because
of the gray sky
or maybe all the lost dogs
and definitely the dead
children, that my membrane has
thinned, supple now,
penetrable as the vulnerable
new skin over a newborn’s skull–
that I miss you.

A Woman’s Work

In this bleak midwinter, the women
set the table, breathe
deep the histories of their mothers,
their dreamed mothers,
put a roast on a charger.
Sound of Music on the television,
on the stereo
a scratched record
of The Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing
Handel’s Messiah.

On a day when it rains
rather than snows,
the women pour
cups of coffee, burn
toast in distraction, move briskly
from stove-top to counter-top to table
stirring roux, rolling dough, taping
corners of gift-wrapped boxes, set
the table for a feast
of memory.

In the memories
of their children, the women
strike a match, burn the day
like bright embers, like stars,
a pale glitter at dusk. Who knows
what might be remembered,
an extra scoop of cream, a present kept
aside until a quiet time–
“I found this
for you and thought
you might like it.”
alone, the threads
of bounty like sewing strings
knotted into being.

What lasts
is the work of women
who cannot know but hope
each note links
past to present, a song
through sorrow, a comfort
she might live
into her children’s
tomorrow.