Light—Thesaurus
The word for light is light
For June is June
For strawberries is strawberries
For swim is swim
For star is star. There are
variations: sunlight, high noon, twilight,
komorebi, the light filtered through the leaves—
one of those Japanese seasonal words
tinted with death. June variations:
first strawberries—take a bite—make a wish
First strawberry wishes always come true
Hop over Summer solstice to June 31st
I thought I had this one day, only to discover
we are speeding through the summer
on the July Express
First swim, quick dip in the sound, beaches
still empty, in early previews, only for the locals,
subscribers, board members. My body zings
from salt and cold. Thank you, welcome back,
it promises to be a great season!
The light stays on so late, so late—
the first stars appear almost at midnight
There is no English, or Russian, or Japanese
word for the beginning of the summer,
when I was young and didn’t know it
Negative Space
Like a blade of a Solingen knife
the tail of a white Fox
cuts this little lake in half
his aspen boat is a ferry
the name of the boat is π
Through the curtain of maple seeds
his unmoored silver home
keeps making rounds,
dividing the lake circumference
by its diameter
I swing over the gunwale
I bring to Fox my modest gifts:
persimmons, mackerel, a book
on alchemy, facsimile
of the first edition
We admire the season’s fireflies
apple blossoms, maple leaves, the first snow
interspersed with occasional madness
then his tail draws an 8 in the air,
and we capsize Möbius-style
Underneath the lake
merry bats dart through the sky
fish fly, a green heron
conducts the ragtag bunch— an orchestra
auditioned locally for this one show
We listen to the St Matthew Passion
performed by bullfrogs and coyotes
like a local community choir with
singers of all experience levels
united by their interest in music
Fox lets me stay a carefully measured
unit of time, how much or how little
I never know, until I do, I say
I better go… it’s time…
He never tries to stop me
This morning, by the shore
in heavy dewdrops
I recognized a delicate reflection
of Fox’s golden monocle−
he is here
Smack in the middle of the lake
irreverent, he sits eternal
witness to seasons
lightning rod for beauty
passing by
Blue Canary
One late _______somewhere
between my 50th & 60th ______
________Thanksgiving & New Year
In the hour between the swan and the falcon
I raid the remnants of the wine cellar:
Riesling
Pinot
Chianti
Champagne
Cachaça
Vodka
Parli Italiano? Russo? Francese?
I stay in old pajamas−
no one is coming
A gray car
pulls up around the corner
through a gap in the curtains
I watch two women and a man
walk door to door, I hope
they miss me− I am busy
learning to play
the accordion
like Marilyn in Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes. I am
a blonde, but no one
prefers me now
Doorbell
The trio
from the gray car
Bible people.
Hello_______No, thank you,
Not really____________Would you like
to hear me play the accordion?
_______________ A pity
I understand, happy______to you too.
Why the accordion?
Why? I am not sure. Maybe
that Russian clown show
we saw with kids on Broadway
three__ten__twenty
winters ago?
Three morose creatures
with tiny red accordions:
Blue canary, she feels so blue
She cries and sighs, she waits for you
Blu-blu-blu canary — qui, qui, qui — si perde l’eco.
Se piangi o canti al tramontar — qui-qui — ripete il vento
I wonder where is this Russian clown now?
It’s been a while. I won’t Google,
let him live forever. In the basement
I dig through Ethan’s old toys
ah, here, the red Schylling accordion
from FAO Schwarz
He was so happy
to get it. They closed
two years later
Blue blue blue canary
Tweet tweet tweet the whole day long
She cries and sighs and tries
To tweet tweet tweet, to sing a song
I play its seven keys
I weep
I wail
I wallow
I sing
I sit
I spread
on a dusty wall-to-wall
I stare
at the popcorned basement ceiling:
somewhere
above me
the light is dying
dimming one by one
wine glass reflections on the table
Dear Hieronymus, Let Us Get Drunk on Oysters
and lament poor street lighting in this tiny town.
You will complain about old sneak Bruegel,
always borrowing your colors and your monkeys.
My dear Hieronymus, I don’t have the heart to tell you
what soon will happen to your harvest,
or the exact date your delightful garden
will be dug out and mowed over. On January 11th
Darlene, our writing workshop mentor, Googled you.
She then advised me to replace the images
of walking fish and winged men-eating lizards
with something more—she used the word relatable—
and to swap your foreign-sounding last name
for simply the famous painter
so readers won’t feel alienated.
Fog muffles the night sky; you kindle
our small beach fire. This amber mead
tastes like mulled ocean.
My dear Hieronymus, next time you visit,
we will plant large crimson tulips
in the raw fat November earth.
You will see—everyone here adores
bright happy blooms from Holland.
