Poetry: Ghost Eyes

Here is poem #14 for the poetry pledge drive. This one was a tough one to write because I kept getting all choked up. Nothing like poetry to dredge up all kinds of feelings and memories. Seriously, therapy and prescription drugs are overrated. Just go write yourself some poetry and have a glass of wine.


Ghost Eyes

People often ask me about the ring I put on
For special occasions - convex and sparkling, two
Strange ghost eyes set side by side. I would stare
As my grandmother carefully held her teacup
And me, gesturing with animated fingers, usually

To punctuate a curse. She promised me the ring
Because I'd always liked it, but I didn't
Feel right about it. I never

Will. It was given to me
As a surprise for my birthday -
Two eyes in a box staring up at me two years
Too soon, because she wasn't going to make it
To my graduation.

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Poetry: Poking the Dead

As for yesterday's poem, I found inspiration for today's poem from an old photograph. The picture below, which I've shared on here before in an earlier post, is of me and my father. I think I'm holding up the fish by myself; my father just wants me in the picture to document how big the fish is. Looking at that picture again got me to thinking of summers in my grandparents' backyard where he and my grandfather would fillet dozens and dozens of fish they caught the same day out on my grandfather's boat. The memories are full of strong images and stir up a lot of warm fuzzy nostalgia despite the gruesome subject. I'm looking forward to expanding and revising this one in the future, but, for now, it's poem # 9 for the poetry pledge drive.


Poking the Dead

They would catch them by the barrelful and bring them home,
Cut them up in the backyard on big stained boards. I would
Nose around the reeking buckets, watch the lips
Moving breathlessly. I'd run

My fingers with and against the grain
Of the scales, then marvel at the discarded
Guts glimmering in the sun. I'd muster the courage
To poke at the dead

Eyes, trying to figure out how
The translucent lids worked, unblinking
When the flies landed.

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Thankful

In the L.A. area today, a freight train collided with a commuter train - the commuter train my husband often takes to and from work. Last night, he talked about taking it today. When it came time to go to work this morning, though, he decided to drive instead because he wanted to run an errand at lunch.

It's difficult to feel happy when I know other spouses and loved ones won't get the same relieving news today (at the time of this post, there are an estimated 70 injured and 10-15 dead). Instead of a reassuring call from their spouse, they may be be getting a phone call or a knock on the door from the authorities with bad news.

But I am happy. Deliriously happy. And I'd rather live with the guilt of being happy while others are grieving than live with the alternative outcome.

He just returned home a little while ago, greeted by a longer, tighter hug and more fervent kisses from me than usual. He's home and safe, and our take-out from the Thai restaurant down the street is on its way, just like any other normal, boring Friday night. And, later, when his snoring wakes me up in the middle of the night, as it does every night, instead of grumbling to myself and shaking him a little to get him to stop, I'm going to scoot closer and spoon him and nestle my head in his back, between his shoulders, and remember how lucky I am.