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on what street if I met you again
There are no fancy street names
in this little town, Epsilon and Gamma
cross themselves like nuns pointing in opposite directions.
I wonder about your face;
if I want to touch it,
if I will look at you shyly moist-lipped
without trying to.
Will you notice the swell of my breathing,
will you watch as I walk away?
Will we hesitate too long, before the courage
to say anything longer than politeness
changes?
You were as humble as Park Avenue.
Most folks ask how do you spell Snoqualmie,
a smaller dot on the map in the flood plain.
Every 100 years locals put on waders, oar their boats
to the back door, fetch mama, clutching
the orange cat and a few photographs.
I thought I saw you once,
there with the road crew, in the heat,
bent over, finishing a curb while Hemingway
napped in the shade--
you were so young that summer.
Gabe to be honest, I miss the torn street
open holes grinding reverberated all the way
into my bedroom where the lace
in the open window shifted.
***
Harvest Moon
1.
the moon is full of herself
voluptuous this night
telling tales of zoo weddings
dry stars in champagne
little sister stands in her light
like an angel in frost
touching spider braille
pinned to the clothesline
worry beads slip like water
from small hands
the moon listens
along with God behind it all
until she runs out
like a dry creek bed
missing the trout on its belly
she closes her eyes
waits long for sleep
cougar pads of fog
press lightly over the spine of night
2.
angora slips from the shoulder
of a long night
rendering the dawn mute
older sister arrives at the hospital
holding hands with her companion
heels click echoes to corners
down long hallways
slight tremble at the thought
of her own belly opened
under the impartial glare
they fiddle new wedding rings
privately
someone in the waiting room
passes out comfort like brochures--
little sister hums the mantra:
she will lay warm drowsy
off somewhere in the black
behind her eyes in dreams so distant
she will never remember
six hours while a wedge of swans
irons the silk of waiting
the needle takes another stitch
staples cover the tracks
someone hands a kidney on ice cubes
to Kathryn
older sister's dying friend
who already holds two borrowed lungs
and waits to play
key-less duets on the organ
***
on October 3, 2001 Wendy donated a kidney
to her friend Kathryn at the University Hospital
in Seattle, WA. Two weeks after surgery they saw
each other again at the annual Wet Leather Biker's
Halloween Party, both have made a full recovery.
The author lives in a small town by a river
down two blocks from the largest chainsaw art gallery
in the world, a stout building with roof-tall sculptures
of large-breasted women next to small carvings of bears
holding up welcome signs. The laundramat is across the street.
It has automatic doors you can kick with your shoe.
She spends most of her free time writing or walking the white
dog. She has long legs. Enjoys eating cherry tomatoes off the vine
before breakfast. Loves James. Has two gorgeous daughters, and
works in the men's section at Eddie Bauer.
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