the place was set
but no one came
she waited for an hour
and then she ate
pistachio and pumpkin
chestnuts and white truffles
outside the rain
the waitress was kind
and left her to her pain
the other diners
pretended she
was not alone
and smiled at
the lonely woman
sitting by herself
French restaurants in fall
the opera crowd
with season tickets
the sommelier
the taste of taro on her tongue
the bitter root of love denied
coffee and a sweet dessert
she paid the price
outside the rain
they picked me
up and put me
down and told
me I’d be found
the light ahead
was not for me
the sky the moon the stars
they could not see
that I was standing still
I ran and ran and ran in place
to chase them down–these
things I dreamed were
dreamed for someone else
the bitter fruit
the barren tree
the songless bird
were all for me
I wore them well
these dark things
around my neck
until I couldn’t breathe
I will not stay
to see them leave
who reads these
poems cannot
know me I
didn’t bury birds
they buried me
people sing
they sing in their bodies
they sing in their lonely places
oh the heart of it
a chorus of individuals
breaking notes
upon a page
black-headed
measured
solitary
catastrophes
throbbing vibration
this is the music of it
symphony
cantata
a welling of voices
rising beneath
the horizon’s baton
we are vagabonds
of our despair
hopeless
hidden
castrati
begging in the night
be still
while I listen
it’s ok to wound
it’s ok to be wounded
we are all in danger
of memory and its consequence
I catch it but
it will not stay;
this thing that
slips away so
easily–like sand
it cannot hold itself.
The red-haired boy
becomes a son,
becomes a brother,
becomes a friend,
becomes a lover,
becomes a husband,
becomes a man.
With him–
a smile is
everything.
He loves words
and so he married
an East-Coast girl;
they keep to
themselves–
blue on blue.
The cowboy who went to sea
taught us everything–
Devil Dogs,
Yankee Doodles,
Umberto’s Pizza,
Big Blue,
Bohack’s sneakers,
Zeusgazette.
Who writes poems about such things?
And so we fight,
and so we pray,
and so we believe;
he will defeat the
long slow thing
that wants him for itself,
our red-haired boy
whom we so love.
Everything
happens
in the fall;
all loss
is in a leaf–
yellow and gold
to the ground.
Even
tall buildings
must fall;
three thousand
hearts and you
in one hour–
autumn.
Two things
juxtaposed,
whose pain
is greater
the leaf’s
or mine;
Falling,
falling,
falling
into the
bright
September
sun–
everything
happens in
the fall.
I love you like
the wing must
love the bird.
No grounded
things for me–
just you, music,
words and
paper trees.
What comes
down must
go up, and
so I’ll join
you in the sky
to fly beneath
a silver moon,
to soar among
the cirrus clouds.
if I told you I’d be there
would you find
the wooden bench
the white camellias
the cherry tree
would you ask my name again
and lift your face into the sun–
exactly as you did that day
would we walk along the garden path
beneath the overarching trees
and listen to the insect’s song
the thrum of things so small
that only lovers hear their
extracorporeal hum
we are too late for love
too late for all the silly things
the longing
the sweet regret
the silences
the sudden rush of words
and yet we’re here
too old to hold each other’s hand
too young to walk apart
if I told you I’d be there
would I wait alone
beneath an autumn sun
would I look up and see you there
beside me on the wooden bench
a white camellia in your hand
Only the moon
could love a tree
that has no leaves.
She lost them all
last autumn’s day
and when they fell
the fickle world
turned it’s face away–
not him, he stayed.
The birds despised
her–they could not nest.
The flowers turned their
sunny heads and all
the weeping willows wept,
But he stood still
and bathed her
in his yellow light
and kept her warm
despite the night.
Seen and
not heard,
we sat in
straight-backed,
wooden chairs
our feet barely
touching the
floor, our hands
hidden underneath
our dresses–
trapping the
words in
the warm
expectancy
of our thighs.
“Keep this
one for me,”
you would
say, passing
the word
along in
the moist
knot of
your fist;
and I would
take it, never
unraveling
its mystery,
burying it deep–
a stigmata of dreams
that we shared
in the long Saturday
afternoons spent
sitting in the
dark parlor
of a woman
who would
die of cancer
at the age
of thirty-five.
You are a flower
growing on the
side of a hill
held up only by
the wind. Your
season is short
and there is no rest.
You are beautiful
every minute,
every hour,
every day
of your brief life;
you cannot escape
from being beautiful,
it wears you down.
Every eye claims you–
the bee,
the bird,
the beetle
and even the sun
braiding the tall grass
like a young girl’s hair.
rlmcdermott 