My Way Ahead
Have to get on with it.
Get caught up in what-if
and I fall behind.
The baby takes center stage.
What is my misery
compared to the curl of its finger,
that half-burp, half-giggle?
Her eyes are in the ascendency.
It’s all about the first word she’ll say
and when she’ll say it.
With time,
the guy will become
more and more anecdotal.
Or he’ll show up in her face,
the asshole.
I have friends
even if I no longer have a lover.
And a fitness regime.
And a laptop,
the only thing he left me.
I refer to it
as the child-support machine.
I write more baby poems
than love poems.
Even the ones that combine the two
are weighted toward
my tiny miracle.
I’m already moving forward.
In some ways,
it’s a relief to know
who’s going with me.
Like when I push baby and carriage
along the icy sidewalk
to the store.
I know what slipping’s all about.
This is me when I’m on my feet.
Breathing Exercise
He took a breath.
So close, it could have been one of mine.
I exhaled.
He snared that one like a butterfly-net.
Sounds pure,
sounds blessed,
but I assure you
it was more mechanical
than spontaneous.
His lungs didn’t know the difference.
All air is the same
no matter where it’s been.
Like our feelings toward each other,
it was 20 percent oxygen,
the rest nitrogen and inert gases.
I revert to the science
so as not be confused with love.
Thin Arm
You're right.
You aren't much to look at.
No nightmare
but, as dream guys go,
I prefer to be awake these days.
But you answer the phone
when I call.
Your kindness keeps tabs
on my fits of sorrow.
And you're not overwhelming.
You don't take up
more than your own space.
I can commune with you.
That's different than just talking.
So
only man I know
who boasts more fridge magnets than I do
this is from someone
just on the visible side of spectrum.
You're sure no
muscle-bound hunk
but a thin arm around me
holds up my end of the bargain.
The Hurricane
When the hurricane hit,
nothing else mattered.
Not the arguments, not the bitterness,
not my own appalling behavior.
There were no cold shoulders,
no rude silences.
Everyone was suddenly at their best.
Trees fell.
Wires came down.
The ocean swamped the coast road.
Our house shook.
The roof threatened to lift off.
We huddled close together
without even an elbow thrown,
a curse uttered.
We were afraid
but not at odds.
Even in the cruel tranquility
of the eye,
we took comfort in the calm,
as if it was somehow,
a consequence of our better selves.
It would be days before
the memory faded
and we were back to our
fractious family ways.
We had weened ourselves off harmony.
The hurricane was vindicated.
An Empty Heart
A tattoo on his shoulder.
A heart this time.
He likes to have it where
a woman like me can see it.
There’s no initials inked into it.
Not even a piercing arrow.
So I now know
what an empty heart looks like
without having to
peek behind his ribcage.