Versatile and sensory, poets for the short month of February are Betty West, John Middlebrook, Ndue Ukaj, Danny Earl Simmons and Scott Hastie.
THE BABY IN THE BATHWATER
For Jay and Vera, sorely missed
By
Nothing about their past was barefoot and pregnant
or one too many highballs after far too many hours
of always knowing what was best.
She wasn’t forever on hands and knees with a bucket and a brush
or seeing nothing but her reflection in the after-dinner dishes.
There was no unaired laundry begging for an airing.
They started sharing a bed after Korea and courting
and asking for permission and it never knew force
or the passive acquiescence to some muscle-bound need.
Their babies boomed into existence only after two loud smiles
were muffled by quiet propriety, smiles that stayed wide open
and naked for silky whispering and staring and all things being equal.
They shared goodbye kisses, welcome home hugs, and one hot
vacation on a beach in Mexico where they learned what tequila can do.
He called her Mama until the day everything turned into cataracts
in the bleary back of his mind.She called him Dad – even after
he turned nurse-bound and refused to remove his souvenir sombrero,
no matter what, until she walked into the room.
TOLL
By
My head often aches in the morning these days
as I rise early for coffee and solitude before
dawn and its persistent nibbling away.
My first cup cooled and quaffed, she awakens,
blesses me with a bleary-eyed smile, starts
another cup, packs my lunch against the day.
I change his soggy overnight diaper, coo and tickle
him into the innocent belly laughing of his age,
join him there as he toddles into her arms.
When neither can see, I press my index fingers
into the sides of my skull and curse
this ache.