Leaving Wegman’s on a Sunday
What color are baby’s eyes? Mama’s?
What color would you call that hair?
What color is their gambling?
What color is his Jamaican soul?
What color is the grocery clerk’s floral scent?
What color is his refusal to understand?
What color is her disappointment?
What color is today’s winter cold?
Came across this To-Do list last week and it struck me as a form of found poetry.
Poem: Old To-Do List
Eliminate tabs in manuscript. Three hundred more pages. Make lunch. Make dinner. Cream of celery soup? Moisturize. Walk at least 6,000 steps, 7,000 better. Pick up dog hair — always pick up dog hair. Start a new jigsaw puzzle. Write note to DB. Keep reading about how to update website. Record emails of subscribers. Oh god — 600! Pick prompt for tomorrow. Keep reading DO YOU REMEMBER BEING BORN? Neaten password lists (Ha! Fat chance). Water mosquito plant. Vacuum upstairs rugs. Think about scrubbing the tub. Consider Wednesdays.
Eight haiku from June. It was a month of blazing heat, doctors’ appointments, editing and book design, and a trip to Northern California
6/2
“Scootch,” “it’s” possessive,
too many “beautifuls.” Red
pen gets a workout.
6/3
Anchovy paste, salt,
lemon juice, chocolate. But
ratatouille’s bland?
6/4
Low-decibel leaf
blowers the norm after years
of law-breaking noise.
6/5
“All we are left with
is stooges and sycophants.”
Unprecedented.
He’s a uniquely
talented arsonist, the
convicted felon.
Adam Schiff
6/6
The rain, it falls now.
Drops make Virginia Creeper
dance. Where are my socks?
6/7
Is this what dying
is like? Lying down, hearing
a clock tick, traffic.
6/10
Burdock grows tall, proud.
Sun warms the parking lot and
the air moves sweet, cool.
5/1
Either I’m a queen
or God has a three hole punch.
White petals galore!
5/4
The question is not,
“Why did she cry?” But, “Why on
earth didn’t she quit?”
Lawrence O’Donnell
5/7
“You remind me of
my daughter.” Was this before
or after they fucked?
5/8
To walk around the
block is to hear at least one
jackhammer. Or two.
5/14
The Jews came before
the Fall of the Temple. Spice
traders, diplomats.
5/16
“All out of beans at St. Peter’s Basilica”
Massive crowds: three beans.
Waiting, waiting: four beans. Heat:
three beans. Tired: four.
5/17
Vatican guard. My
mother painted one and my
father stabbed it. Rip!
5/18
Underground in the
catacombs, empty slots speak
to years of bone theft.
5/19
Opera below our
window. Liquid notes, honey
or cool spring water.
5/18
Capitalism
in decay as evidenced
by endless selfies.
5/19
A Tuscan farmer
surrounded by bright yellow
fruit. Ceramic art.
5/20
Grey paving stones shine,
or go dark in the rain. Low
ones pool with water.
5/21
Giotto room tour guide,
“If we see any pubic
hair on the Christ child…”
5/25
In Rome and Florence
I peeked at twitter a bit,
that’s all. What freedom!
5/28
I curl up and sleep
while pundits discuss closing
arguments. What’s next?
5/30
I’d like to write of
irises or rain, but they’re
still jackhammering.
5/31
It was really a
documents case. Documents
don’t lie, don’t forget.
Barb McQuade
4/1
I like to use my
fingers like rake tines, scraping
dried leaves away. Earth!
4/2
Look at the page where
my face sits — geometric,
bereft of all sense.
4/3
The arbor vitae
shudder and sway in icy
winds. Finn stays inside.
4/4
She faces away.
The better to feel his breath
on her ear? The Kiss.
4/5
After the needles,
image behind the eyelids:
the sea and eclipse.
4/6
Grey skies, grey mood, grey
politics — the way the law
creeps so glacially.
4/7
Mourning doves might be
discussing breakfast, but it
sounds like a lament.
4/9
Begin the countdown!
When have I ever been this
psyched about a trial?
4/10
Primrose, hellebores
didn’t make it, but just look
at those trout lilies!
4/11
Red squirrel in the walls:
a source of distress, expense,
and disagreement.
4/13
Daffodils bow down
yielding to the weight of their
bright, golden trumpets.
4/14
Solitary birds,
hawks are rarely seen in pairs.
They must be mating.
4/15
The Marathon takes
cars, people north to Comm Ave
leaving us in peace.
4/16
I lean and gather
the brittle catalpa pods,
useful for a sec.
4/17
Finn farts up a storm.
Is it the salmon skin or
my fried egg remnants?
4/18
A robin hops through
Siberian Squill and now
and then disappears.
4/20
Clouds meet the sea at
the horizon. Cape Cod Bay
adorned with ruching.
4/21
I walked so very
far in the cold Atlantic
breeze for chocolate.
4/23
All that we don’t know
about others’ suffering
could fill many books.
4/24
Rain speckles bluestone.
I eat a baked potato
for dinner and sigh.
4/25
Unfurled fern fronds march
along the basement doorway.
I did not plant them.
4/26
The Library of
Congress now catalogues my
book, The Weight of Cloth.
4/27
Sometimes it’s the form,
other times the colors, but
always a comment.
4/28
Top dressed peonies,
fertilized azaleas, moved
three ferns. Time to rest.
4/29
Four white handles on
the pansy flats and four white
splotches of bird poop.