Thinking of Them & Us How it was and Is
from 17 years underground they
begin to stir, a vibrating hum, a love song
to entice a mate, pull me back to when
he and I shared a meal a bed a body:
filtered through a pandemic, photos of us,
of them, come to me second hand now:
something new to eat to feel…bugs
I think, unable to get past a word…
he took me to a Vietnamese restaurant
to taste what it was like for him there,
bombs went off in his voice and
got in my way, so loud he said
everyone says of them who
do no harm to us, or the earth;
we did a lot of harm, he said
who can’t come back; but they will
next year, in 17 years, with their love song
driving us mad again
Bulbs
what burst through bulbs planted
in another season burst through
someone’s angry mind while I slept,
perennials caught in a cycle,
tulips circling a tree down the block
weren’t even there yesterday, the bullet
she didn’t see hit her, didn’t remember
when he swore to get back at someone
who hurt him, dormant for years
shot out one day for no reason,
connections that don’t connect
drawn as I stood admiring the tulips
aren’t they beautiful, a passerby said,
and wondering who planted those bulbs
the fear I woke up with this morning
what are you waiting for
words meant for someone else
that keep coming up, and the tulips
the beautiful tulips
The day was a perfect painting of
the original, 20 years ago, except Saturday
was a mistake, felt wrong and I kept
forgetting what day of the week it was.
Should have been Tues. Was then.
The 11th outgrew the day;
from inside, what felt like a cell
extending 20 years long to a pandemic
I looked out to a place where
nobody I loved died yet:
my mother, a man I called husband, another
I loved, three invisible plots: 2012, 2013, 2018
seared in my mind with that other one
smashed to pieces, piled up past the sky
emitting a terrible smell…
they weren’t there
but are here now on this anniversary of it;
nobody is outside. Not in New York.
Not in this country.
© Patricia Carragon: Shore Promenade{26}