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fall colors
2003-09-11 - 10:25 a.m. So. Took the car in this morning, and rode my bike from there. I like our car guy -- his name's Daniel (pronounced, you know, the Spanish way) and he has pictures of his two cute boys all over the wall -- in the snow, playing soccer, at the beach. Very nice. I saw a lady getting into her car, which was mysteriously filled with verizon boxes. I realized that yesterday the roto-rooter people had been at her house. Ha! And -- it only took me 35 minutes today, although it's not quite fair to compare since I didn't start at quite the same place. Still - it was not very far away. Now I am very hot. I've got long pants on, which is probably a big mistake. Also, the weather is sooo very nice -- I think we should go backpacking. Hmmm. It's perfectly lovely out. Warm days, cool nights, fall colors -- Okay -- what else. Homework so far has been relatively painless -- both girls have been good about just getting it done. Nora's room looks like a bomb went off in her dresser, sending clothes all over the place. Hmmm. Here's a poem -- forgive the awful format. >No one came home > >1. >Max was in bed that morning, pressed >against my feet, walking to my pillow >to kiss my nose, long and lean with aqua- >marine eyes, my sun prince who thought > >himself my lover. He was cream and golden >orange, strong willed, lord of the other >cats and his domain. He lay on my chest >staring into my eyes. He went out at noon. > >He never came back. A smear of blood >on the grass at the side of the road >where we saw a huge coyote the next >evening. We knew he had been eaten > >yet we could not know. We kept looking >for him, calling him, searching. He >vanished from our lives in an hour, My cats >have always died in old age, slowly > >with abundant warning. Not Max. >He left a hole in my waking. > >2. >A woman leaves her children in day care, >goes off to her secretarial job >on the 100th floor, conscientious always >to arrive early, because she needs the money > >for her children, for health insurance, >for rent and food and clothing and fees >for all the things kids need, whose father >has two new children and a great lawyer. > >They are going to eat chicken that night >she has promised, and the kids talk of that >together, fried chicken with adobo, rice >and black beans, food rich as her love. > >The day is bright as a clean mirror. > >3. >His wife has morning sickness so does >not rise for breakfast. He stops for coffee, >a yogurt, rushing for the 8:08 train. >Ignoring the window, he writes his five > >pages, the novel that is going to make >him famous, cut him loose from the desk >where he is chained to the phone >eight to ten hours, making cold calls. > >In his head, naval battles rage. He >has been studying Midway, the Coral >Sea, Guadalcanal. He can recite >tonnage, tides, the problems with torpedoes. > >For five years, he has prepared. >His makeshift office in the basement >is lined with books and maps. His book >will sing with bravery and error. > >The day is blue and whistles like a robin. > >4. >His father was a fireman and his brother. >He once imagined being a rock star >but by the end of high school, he knew >it was his calling, it was his family way. > >As there are trapeze families, clans >who perform with tigers or horses, >the Irish travelers, tinkers, gypsies, >those born to work the earth of their farm, > >and those who inherit vast fortunes >built of the bones of others, so families >inherit danger and grace, the pursuit >of the safety of others before their own. > >The morning smelled of the river, >of doughnuts, of coffee, of leaves. > >5. >When a man fell into the molten steel >the company would deliver an ingot >to bury. Something. Where I live >on the Cape, lost at sea means no body. > >You can't bury a coffin length of sea >water. There are stones in our grave >yards with lists of names, the sailors >from the ships gone down in a storm. > >MIA means no body, no answer, >hope that is hopeless, the door >that can never be quite closed. >Lives are broken off like tree limbs > >in a storm. Other lives simply dissolve >like salt in warm water and there is >no shadow on the pavement, no trace >They puff into nothing. We can't believe. > >We die still expecting an answer. > >6. >Los desparecidos. Did we notice? >Did we care? in Chile, funded, >assisted by the CIA, a democratic >government was torn down and thousands > >brought into a stadium and never seen >again. Reports of torture, reports of graves >in the mountains, bodies dumped at sea >reports of your wife, your son, your > >father arrested and then vanished >like cigarette smoke, gone like >a whisper you aren=EDt quite sure you >heard, a living person who must, who > >must be somewhere, anywhere, lost, >wounded, boxed in a cell, in exile, >under a stone, somewhere, bones, >a skull, a button, a wisp of cloth. > >In Argentina, the women marched >for those who had disappeared. >Did we notice? That happened >in those places, those other places > >where people didn't speak English, >ate strange spicy foods, had dictators >or Communists or sambas or goas. >They didn't count. We didn't count > >them or those they said had been >there alive and now who knew? >Not us. The terror has come home. >Will it make us better or worse? > >7. >When will we understand what terrorists >never believe, that we are all >precious in our loving, all tender >in our flesh and webbed together? > >That no one should be torn >out of the fabric of friends and family, >the sweet and sour work of loving, >burnt anonymously, carelessly > >because of nothing they ever did >because of hatred they never knew >because of nobody they ever touched >or left untouched, turned suddenly > >to dust on a perfect September >morning bright as a new apple >when nothing they did would >ever again make any difference. > >Copyright (c) 2002 Marge Piercy > Box 1473, Wellfleet MA 02667 I especially like it from 2 though 5. OKay -- got to go. I woke up with a leg cramp last night. Signs of my increasing toughness. Ha!
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