EARLIEST MEMORY

The first thing I can remember is water -- not a lake

or river but the rising level of it in the bathtub, the untroubled

sheen of its surface splashing over the lip of porcelain,

below which many imaginary explorers went in search of

new worlds, new creatures, new routes of escape.

I am holding my favorite rubber alligator, the one I will

soon bring with me to foster care. But not just yet.

I have locked the door, but cannot remember

doing so. I can hear voices calling on the other side,

going back and forth, but do not answer.

I like the hum and gurgle of the water. I like the quiet.

But my older sister, convinced that I am drowning,

has scaled the creaking fire escape and kicked in

the window with her flimsy summer sandals, throwing

shards of glass across the smooth tiled floor.

They are like small jewels, aquarium green at their edges;

I want to pick them up and turn them in my hands.

We are fine, but we are both in trouble now.

Though our mother does not stir from the sanctuary of

her television-blue room, the permanent dusk she cultivates,

and does not bother to unlock her door. It is not time

for us to break that door in, its frame dangling

like a broken cross, nails bent downward. Not just yet.

For now, she stays in bed as though tethered there,

drifts in an ocean that is not quite oblivion,

steered by starlight we can neither follow nor understand.

We are fine, we are; but we will be in trouble soon.

GARAGE SALE

 

Someone, somewhere, has that missing arm

that snaps neatly into Barbie's shoulder;

someone can patch up those jeans, torn and frayed

by time, clean out that ancient coffee pot.

Someone needs an 8-track player in their Chevy,

a jar of random buttons, ball of rubber bands,

someone needs that painting of Jesus knocking

at the door, rays of gold light drifting out.

Someone can restring and tune that guitar.

Someone never read that book in high school,

or heard that album at the right time in their life.

Someone has looked everywhere for that,

then forgotten all about it, then looked again.

Someone has decided to take up bowling.

Someone can save that withering plant.

Someone has just the right photo -- graduation

or wedding portrait -- for that antique frame,

its tarnished brass edges pointing outward

like stars, its bed of black felt empty beneath

the dusty glass, waiting for someone to step inside,

turn on the lights, claim their rightful place.