presses each broken thing
like an autumn leaf
between pages where I watch
the pace of disintegration,
lacy residue.
Rain writes within it
a sloppy welter—the
neighbor shaking her hose
in your face, swearing;
your car door scraped
and crumpled against
a concrete pillar; the dishwasher’s
breakdown, gushing water
all over your kitchen floor
just when you start
the cancer treatment;
I walk the dog in circles
round and round the
graveyard. He’s the best
company these days,
a wayfaring beast off-leash,
making me laugh, galloping
like a clumsy pony.
I count the kindnesses
that start to outweigh the angers:
a bowl of mango sorbet
a friend scoops out for me.
A thick burst of sunflowers—
their bold, young lion faces.
The printmaker today, strumming
his ukulele in the rained out
Fair in the Park, yodeling songs
just for my friend and me.
And anyway, I’ve not much fight left
right now, between the needles,
biopsies, the surgery. Just want a soft
place with pillows on it. And then: you call,
saying, you’ve been on my mind all week,
I’m sending love—beautiful
as red dahlias lolling toward me
on their sturdy, singular stems.
—
Copyright 2019 Sharon Fagan McDermott.
Sharon Fagan McDermott is a poet, musician, and a teacher of literature at a private school in Pittsburgh, PA. Her most recent collection of poetry, Life Without Furniture, published by Jacar Press (2018) wrestles with finding and feeling at home in the world and seeking sanctuary in an often challenging life
A rich metaphor well done!
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