Something Unbeautiful
My father's store,
which we called the place—
all that equipment,
the stench of roach spray.
He was an exterminator,
an unbeautiful job,
taking me with him to unbeautiful places,
the unbeautiful people we saw,
poor people, the kind who had the most bugs,
who called my father because he charged the lowest fees.
The flop house on the Bowery,
the television chained to the floor,
Gene Rayburn, the host of The Match Game,
his idiot's smile.
Mr. Garibaldi, who owed my father money,
the only time I heard him raise his voice.
The jar of eggs floating in gray water,
the sign, 25 cents an egg.
Eggs are cheap and nourishing,
why drunks eat them, my father said.
He never disparaged anyone,
only explained what he saw during his ugly rounds,
shared with me these matters of fact,
my dear, dead, hardworking father.
At night he came home and listened to Brahms.
He taught me Brahms was beautiful,
and now I see all of it was.
In Praise of Stupid Things
In praise of stupid things,
little things, barely discernible off-beats and downbeats.
In praise of tiny buds on my spindly oak,
not a week but a day after the storm.
In praise of feeling excited not just when spring comes,
but the change of every season, the quickening,
the flutter I feel. Reminds me I'm alive,
if not always feeling that way.
In praise of letting go,
reminds me of letting down,
how I felt when I nursed my children,
the flow beginning,
my whole body settling in to do
what it was programmed to do,
feed them, feed me,
listening to New York at Night with Nimet
the Metropolitan Opera on WQXR,
Wagner's Tannhauser, cymbals clashing,
my breasts spurting milk,
my newborn's tiny lips
pursed and puckered,
he wanted something so easy for me to give.
In praise of remembering those days,but not longing for their return,
only to cherish them.
In praise of cherishing.
I do too little.
My mother-in-law warned me
if you speak always of the bad,
it will own you.
In praise of seeing her wisdom,
even though we didn't like each other.
In praise of recognizing the good
in someone we hate.
In praise of my step-sister
As a peace offering; she gave me
something I coveted,
my insides suddenly as warm
as her soft, pink hand.
This is how forgiveness feels.
