MARJORIE
Marjorie, we make phone calls about you
I still picture the Pacific
We drive your Toyota to the ocean when you are too old
To take yourself, how quick the view
How abbreviated, your window up
And the bells in the church in the canyon
And the eucalyptus trees, spines, the lone cloud
The street smells of jasmine, Marguerite all the way to the ocean
I wonder if the piano keys are like flowers to you
When you hold a memory, how long does it stay
Question without punctuation, time without limit
What you see, now, is a kind of magic
Even as it takes you from us
Even as your end is in sight
I pretend otherwise
Otherwise, grief-wracked, your pink towels
Your lamps from other countries
Your radio on
I pretend and here we live together
And here you tell me about the chills and about good words
There is something about your survival that makes me love you more
How you squeeze my hand with more force than I’d wield
For anyone, anytime
Bells, now and then, and your hand
Like you’re giving me your life, like you’re asking me to see
The ocean again, the one sailboat white as the one cloud, asking me
To wield jasmine wield windows open
Wield love how it’s glowing
THE BIRD IN THE BALLET
The bird out the window is not as blue
as the bird in the ballet, silkened and
turning. I hate that I still think of those
nights driving down your street,
the photos you take without
me, the candles burning
in paper bags, the musical instruments
we play in a field,
xylophone reverberant, and the stab of
being in body: my pelvis recoiling
as we walk in the park. Memory,
active. Tea, chamomile. Pain, profuse.
There was wonder
(whether I drank water from a glass jar
across the room as you slept or
I stayed close, mouth dry,
pressed to you) (and the nature of the light)
(and what was the song you played
in December), an inchoate question
or two, a thought of beauty and
what is deserved.
This Much
Instead of this cup of water,
you could reach for
the window. You could
exhale and think of—
what? It was always
going to be hard.
So you put fog
around it, you
soften and veil it,
obscure it with silk
and steam and cotton,
you light every candle
and take every bath, you
walk down every path,
she told you about a bridge
you could cross so
you cross it. To sit
by the water. Does it
matter if he meets
you there? He won’t.
A few other scenes:
the baby blue car
the night of your
wedding, sudden rain,
blood smeared across your
face. Bleeding hearts
in your childhood
garden, pearls of
flora, lakewater
holding every
absent ocean.
Somewhere, someone
wonders
what is wrong
with you, beyond all
the pain you’re
already salving
and all the life
you’ve already
saved. It could take
another life to
understand. Meanwhile,
some candle wicks,
cheap, are drowning
in wax, and you’ve lit
every match. You’ve
even lit your own hair
on fire on accident,
blowing on flame in
the dark. Tonight, and
tomorrow, there isn’t
a lullaby—silence,
silence, an oath to
yourself to quiet,
to bend again but
only for yourself, to
spread fabric down
the forest trail, to cross
back over earth and
wrap its shape around
your shoulders, extend
and recoil, untangle
your body as thread.
He won’t, he won’t.
What else: the past in its
vat, the tires worn down,
the lighter out of fluid,
the trash won’t take itself out
and the laundry won’t
wash itself. Your own
hands in your own hair,
wet, in the morning.
This much is a gift.
-
AM Ringwalt is a writer and musician whose work appears in Jacket2, Music & Literature, and Black Warrior Review. Called "rich with emotion" by Pitchfork, Summer Angel is out now on Dear Life Records. What Floods is forthcoming from Inside the Castle. Currently, she is a visiting instructor at Interlochen Arts Academy.