Wind Up (2008)

Frail loved declining engine, you
Stumble and slow and halt.
In my dream I take over.
I grasp the winding stem, turn it once,
And you rise up. You move
Briskly toward me.
Your eyes wide open. You are able to laugh.

We are in the world together!
Now you are in my hands.
Through the thrum of time, I am listening.
If you falter, I am here, I am strong.
I have the key.
I will wind and wind and wind.

Union Church Concert (Hyde Park)

In this American notion of a sacred room
rounded and upreaching,
small arches stand on larger arches
flanked by repeating pillars
under long ceilings staves that make me think
of Byzantium or Norway in the Middle Ages.
There is no spire, no pointed cruciform,
no loft or gallery,
just one wide space, expanded
softly by our quiet breathing,
where we listen together, level and lit
by plain white globes in groups of six
on iron rings from six iron chains,
three rows of six from front to back,
and the quiet generosity of light is asserted.

My mother’s hair

Early summer.
I was fifteen and halfway out the door
when you stopped me.

You asked me as a favor
to cut your hair and curl it.
I said I am not a hair dresser.

I’ll tell you how, you replied.
Alien tools were arrayed on the kitchen counter.

I was sullen and clumsy and you
were admired, well dressed, in clothes you made
or altered yourself. A perfectionist.
But that day you had somewhere to go,
and no time, and no one else to turn to.

Your hair was thick in my hands
I felt the warmth beneath.
The brown glowed red where the sun hit it.
One by one you made me pull
the few white strands
so quickly you barely flinched.
Your pale scalp under the heavy waves
was strange and private
until by touch it became as familiar
as the skin of your daily appearance
made pinkish and sweet-smelling
by the pancake makeup
you smoothed on with a small wet sponge.

Awkwardly at the kitchen sink
your neck lay bare on a towel,
your hair spread out against the white
porcelain as I silently poured
water from a saucepan.
Lather, rinse, repeat. I followed directions.

Then you sat on the kitchen chair
while I combed through as gently as I could.
You explained
how to section and where to lay the scissors,
but the wet strands skidded across the blades.
Dark triangles fell to the floor.
Next came plastic curlers like twin bones
of a chicken wing, from which
the hair escaped again and again
until I got the hang of them.

The dryer was a stiff balloon
inflated with noisy heat that became
almost unbearable. From time to time
You turned it off and we waited,
the smell of burning hair around us.

Finally the curlers were unlatched.
Bright coils sprang forth
to be brushed and shaped with my bare hands.
You held a mirror in which we could see each other.
We were both happy.
You were thirty-five years old.

I was proud and thought, how beautiful
was your lively hair, untouched by the cobalt.