Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Fog

I was outside under the carport, hiding
between the Highlander and the raised
flower bed so my son wouldn't see me trashing
my lungs with cigarettes and killing myself
by degrees when it rolled in and all the unspokens
burdening my being became clear the way things
do when mist envelops and you can't rely on what you see.

The streetlights became minature suns. The trees
white buffaloes come together for the ghost dance.
And I, I had become a visitor to my own home--
a visitor exploring the delicacies of finely spun
webs stretched between the morning glories
and tiny inland nautili scattered across the crumbling
concrete planters.

Surely I did not know this place. Could not have been
standing there for an hour or more chatting about Jersey,
lunch in Manhattan. This place I stood in, with the fog
wrapping me in its cocoon was not the same. I know so.
Because I was not the same. I was five margaritas,
ten marlboros and four months removed from
the night you died. A fogless, starry, moonlit night,
so bright my eyes could not adjust to the clarity of moonlight
and mortality.

*************************************************
The fog really was inviting last night and not so thick
I couldn't see to drive.

Felt compelled to write something about it so the piece
above is my best attempt. God, it's been so long since
I've written or tried to write a poem.

Oh, and yesterday I saw a rainbow--
the first one I've seen in several years.

I kept craning my neck
to see it. I wanted to pull off the road and just look at it
until it dissipated, but I kept driving through the rain,
driving to the grocery and to the shopping mall
and to my home and to life.

2 comments:

jim said...

here's a possible edit for your poem -- keep writing (poems)

Fog

I was outside under the carport, hiding
between the Highlander and the raised flower bed
so my son wouldn't see me trashing my lungs
with cigarettes, killing myself by degrees when it rolled in.

The streetlights became minature suns. The trees,
white buffaloes ready for the ghost dance. And I,
a visitor exploring the delicacies of finely spun
webs stretched between the morning glories.

Surely I did not know this place. Could not have been
standing there for an hour or more chatting
about Jersey, lunch in Manhattan. This place
with the fog wrapping me in its cocoon was not the same.

Or I was not. I was five margaritas,
ten marlboros and four months removed from the night
you died. A fogless, starry, moonlit night, so bright
my eyes could not adjust to the clarity, the mortality.

Maggie said...

Thanks, jz...I'll keep trying. I like your edit--it got rid of some of the fluff.

Do you like Laux and Addonizio(sp.)? I just got a book the other day (written by both of them) called The Poet's Companion (maybe). Lots of exercises. Interesting ones at that.

One of them says to look at a family photograph and think about the picture that was not taken and then write about it.

Another tells you to look around your room and just start writing about something in the room.


I chose two medicine bottles that have been sitting on my dresser since the day I got back home from Louisville (April 3rd--Dad was still on ICU but was improving. I had been there for 8 days and had to come back home to work that week). They were my father's meds that had been prescribed on the 23rd of March--3 days before he was life-flighted out of here. He had never been on any routine meds in his life, and as the bottles reveal, he never had the opportunity to take many of the ones prescribed. I just can't throw them away. Not yet.

So tired, jz. So tired of saying I'm so tired.

*sigh*

It would help if I would get in bed at a decent hour and drink less.


Going to try to get my walk in this afternoon and then maybe work in the yard for a little while and then perhaps get in bed a little earlier tonight.

Thanks again for reading me and helping me out...I appreciate it and you!