Two kids on a borrowed dock, I push away saying going to look for turtles who should be there, noses just visible, green leaves breathing in and out. Can’t find them today-swim back, watch leaves drift tiny rafts on water cups the sky, reflect the blue sky, deep green water you laugh, lift your head back, river-legs-dock-children-trees-hill-home.
She has been a cloud, a curved white wave, a story from a picture, the daughter who won’t answer back, reminder of all I have lost, world is full of daisies, I could find one now, on hands and feet in the night. They are common things, hands and feet in the dark, looking for lost flowers, people we always knew we needed. One million daisies, little flower faces, pushed to rough angles by this lion’s wind, breathing us into impossible life.
Like you I dread
The cascade of terrible deals waiting each day in the junk folder of a yahoo account
Offers for things I don’t want, need, fear
Including Nina’s daily offer of
Gorgeous Russian brides
(Which raises so many questions)
I decide to believe
They are all nesting dolls
With the hopefully-hypothetical Nina the biggest mama doll
Seamed at the waist so
Each smaller iteration can come out
With her own
Painted-on wedding dress, bouquet of flowers
in a line they become their own wedding procession
Waiting for Someone to breath on them
Making us all real.
First the house is a messy
Then the wife
Gentle tyranny of ordinary things
Compared to cardinal ones, twos, threes
All that can be multiplied, added, subtracted
Divided between us.
Whether before or after the flock of cranes fly upstream at dusk, the moon catches its own face in the watercup waves
One three-quarter cameo dances into many
silvery-petalled-moons spun from the
Streaming coattails of a brooding sun
who has just
up the river bank, across the burnished rooftops, past the crayoned, arbitrary horizon
Good-bye he said, over broad, burning shoulders,
leaving me all this lovely
I always show up somewhat grudgingly, worried about imaginary time, until I see how much he loves them and how much they need him while in the after dark crickets sing
They have always been placeholders for real chairs, blue, plastic, broken in the sun. Despite the advice of well-wishers, I keep them, good enough for now.