On Grazing and Dry Skin

My great grandmother Chachi used to sit on the low wall
Of the open verandah on the north side of the family home
And had farm help to successfully chase stray cows from grazing in her yard;
The cows were confused – they knew nothing about our boundaries.
She was in her eighties and often used a knife to scratch her drying back.

Now in my fifties I sit on the window seat
Of my well lit and insulated home among the trees
And try my hardest to chase the deer that stray in to graze in my yard;
The deer just stand and stare at me and wonder what I’m doing in their woods.
I find myself using a hairbrush occasionally to scratch my drying back.

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Another bird dies today
Because of our house among the trees
The house among the trees with glass windows
The glass windows that let in the clear blue sky on a cold day
The blue sky that gets reflected so clearly to the little bird
The little dull brown bird with yellow wings and an orange spot on her head
The little brown bird that lay hidden in the fallen leaves when I went out to look for her
After I had heard the bump and seen something fall.

I held the fallen body
Lifeless and limp
In the bowl of my palms
And deeply, deeply, apologized
Before closing the blinds on that window.

The Reading

I had noticed the entry in the September Observer
And marked the separated parts with two half circles
To possibly check out on Tuesday the twentythird.

But at the end of the day, after seeing my friend off at the bus stop,
I came home at six and thought of all the reasons why
I shouldn’t go back into town for a poetry reading.

The gas price for one; I had a ton of Thrift Shop paperwork to do;
The SPARSH conference call was at eight thirty and I wasn’t ready;
There were emails to reply to and thank you cards to write…

Then I bribed myself: Maybe if you can finish the paperwork
And print the stuff for the meeting, maybe then you can go.
I said OK and started working. I went to check something online.

That did it. I fell into the Shaman Drum page and saw the blurb again.
It was six forty five now and a little late if I wanted to be seated before the start of the reading
But my inherited impulse gene took over and I dropped everything to drive off to State Street.

Not even four hours had lapsed since I had told my friend
About the need to really pick and choose the things you did in this town
Because there were so many of them. Else they would drain you of your time and money.

Was this an event that I needed to be at? Yes. Absolutely.
Just like flute performances a couple of years ago and linguistics classes before that.
Poetry – especially by an ex-engineer-now-stay-at-home-Brighton-mom was irresistible.

I figured I’d sneak into the back of the room and leave a little early if I needed to.
Except that when I got to the store, all the seats in the back were taken; I had also forgotten my watch.
I walked to the front row and sat right next to her while she was being introduced.

When Christine Rhein started to read from her award winning first book Wild Flight
She exuded a quiet confidence and expressed herself with subdued emotion.
I noticed she was a little nervous when she turned the pages – her fingers gave her away.

The end of the hour came all too quick. I was glad now that I had to sit in the front of the room –
I could get in the front of the line to get my book signed. Which I did. Right behind Larry Goldstein.
As I spelled my name, Christine looked up and asked, Are you a writer?

I fumbled for the right words and finally blurted that I hadn’t come out of the closet yet.
She wrote, neatly, With best wishes for your writing, and asked me to stay in touch.
I paid for my book and walked to the parking lot on air.

And to think that I almost didn’t make it to The Reading!