Rereading what I wrote when he was born
and till he left our home, I see how sweet
he was before preschool. They set to warn
us then of angry fits, when he’d defeat
their socializing systems with his scorn,
rejecting time-outs like an obsolete
response. His sole regret was getting caught,
and squeezed by institutions, we were fraught.
When I was 5 and guided by a nurse,
escorting me upstairs for surgery,
and taking me confused to something worse,
she forward-bent, with palm upon her knee
and asked me how I was, addressing me
by name resembling mine but not correct.
I loathed her posture and activity.
“She’s stupid and a fake,” I recollect.
All correspondence now has been reviewed.
Though some collections beg to be reread
before return to friends as recall food,
the bulk is boxed with stuff we’re going to shred.
The spiral notebooks where I drafted verse
that went to toner and became a post,
or never rose to what could reimburse
my effort, now are destined to be toast.
I spent long hours browsing diaries
and journals, gleaning details, nothing deep
in revelation – writing were the keys,
and only those from school days did I keep.
The mountain’s now a mesa. I suppose
the next step is to winnow through my prose.
Cut flowers haven’t charmed me for a while;
they seem an offering that’s bound to die.
Perhaps it’s how she lifted them – that smile
of affection, toddler-voicing “hi,”
but I was glad to take them into my
small place. I may be entering a phase
more gracious, less judgmental. So I try
to pick a windowsill, and find a vase.
That 20 minute morning walk, I tried
to notice where I went and felt, instead
of concentrating on ideas I spied
reviewing journal entries. In my head
I wandered, while each 8-pound weighted tread
was made amid air springtime soft and sweet.
I caught a train and rode it as I read,
and only focused rising to the street.
She chose the father with some care, and yet
it’s evident he came with temper flaws.
For decades she has chosen to forget
some coldness and obtuseness, giving pause
in early scenes, but the genetic set
was never viewed as dominant, because
she favored nurture over nature then,
and sought to guide. She sees the traits again.
I’ve streamed for years, confess it’s often Prime,
and now they’ve added ads I try to miss.
I see and sense some frames, and note that time
has little changed who pays to bust my bliss:
New cars and car insurance while I piss,
but drugs with crafted names are all the rage.
The promises and warnings make me hiss,
and signify how ill and scared we age.
An article was tossed last week at me,
as if an eavesdropper was paying heed
to current thoughts of biochemistry
and what to counter fragile I might need.
I gave the offered words attentive read,
and even after buffing them with salt,
they prompted questioning how to proceed:
the what-does-what; and maybe I should halt.
We didn’t mean it as a recall test.
I showed her mail postmarked in ‘69,
the subject a close friend of hers, distressed
by teenage kids. We watched her read each line,
but grasp no recollection to assign
those characters. We shifted then to seek
her memory of 50. She said “fine,”
but only of her 20’s would she speak.
I felt so bad 3 days ago, I feared
I’d have to cancel all my plans this week.
Exhausted and beset by something weird
I tried remaining calm, but I’m a freak
for worry, and my peace of mind was speared
by symptoms that I reckoned as unique.
It’s likely luck has spared me such before;
that’s my conclusion, now I’m ill no more.
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