THE LIGHTNING

The bell ringing has been a great pleasure
for her during these months. But she
has been confused by the many secrets.
The fragments of stories between
upstairs and down. Like when the woman
dressed in such a beautiful white gown
with only one shoe. And that one with
no heel. And the other woman upstairs
and down. Fragments of stories.
She admitted it was her fault because
of her questions. Dreaming her own story
wanting to be part of it. And never explained.
The strange life she would take upstairs
and the waiting. The lightning in the night
over Iowa cornfields. Talking about love
and its dangers. About what happens when
you lay the new image over the old.

GETTING VALUE

My elderly friend of many years arrived
last winter at my door with his nose
dripping onto the floor, and shaking
so hard you could hear his teeth chatter.
It was hard to get his clothes off
and him onto the sofa bed in my living room.
Filling me with memories of what
he used to be. What the French call
“monsters.” (Like Rodin.) His poetry is
deeper now. Bigger, and more tender
than ever. We wonder about the newness
of the old. And how much is missing.
He forgets names and directions.
Surely there is a hollowing out,
but how much that is left is more than
the past was? The Shakespeare who stopped
writing. And the crippled Leonardo.
What about out very old god who is
now making his problematic children?


THE OTHERNESS

Of course there is the otherness,
right away inside you when
the doe steps carefully down
the embankment. Then clatter
of hoof and the dappled water
with leaf shade. The otherness
and the invisible until you came.

From In the Middle Distance. Copyright 2006 by Linda Gregg. All rights reserved.