Two nights ago, I thought, “How strange
to be alive; breathing; lying in bed
in the dark; seeing the same old twigs
out the same old window.” Yesterday
I saw, out the window of my eye’s periphery,
the blur of a blackbird urging itself into flight:
like sunlight on the floor of my apartment:
(sunlight, after three months of cold winter).
Marianne, how does one describe wonder?
“Fine-grained and vivid, like deep snow,
or stardust between the fingers.”
long grey hair tied back
into a ponytail, piercing blue-gray eyes.
You came into the drop-in every day.
We hit it off, talked about your husband (ex),
and your extended family (estranged).
I remember a story you told me: driving on the highway,
a semi locked your fender,
lifted your car from behind, hurtled you
and it a seeming mile. Your front end
tore into the road, forcing a rain-
storm of sparks. Most days you’d pull
a chair up to my desk. I’d sit
on that desk; we’d talk about anything.
Favorite story: 1965,
you were ten years old, in the backseat,
as your parents drove for groceries. Father
parked the car. Seconds later, parents
gone, you heard a drum-tap, an
explosion, and once upon a time you
dressed so fine. Startled, wrenched out yourself,
you went somewhere that music goes
when it carves indelible tracks in your brain,
only to find you were back in the 1960’s:
the car running, your parents waving
like strangers out the window, the sunlight
loud, your cheeks flushed, your heart beating
somewhere far away but near.