Everything Bright, Clear, and Beautiful: A Year of Poetry - Paperback

a fine company (March 20, 2020)

at home, i think the egret and pond heron
who live in our yard
are having a fine time.
all those insects and no one to startle them.
the coucal can flap down from the tallest trees,
sit on the side of the compost bin,
and whoop his hoarse laughter,
the tomatoes have ripened on the vine
rice is in the barn.
we are many miles south
we drove for days to get here,
and we have learned the name
of the bird who cries in the darkness
—nightjar.
in the early hours of the morning,
when i woke up to to the nightjar’s calls,
Chinua handed me binoculars
so i could see our new loud friend on the fence post,
calling and calling, without an answer
and this morning lapwings are
swooping through the coconut trees
crying their news to one another
the doves, koels, and magpie robins also
a winged presence, a fine company
undulating motion, feathers and waves of sound.

nine of us (March 21, 2020)

nine of us walked through the coconut grove:
three generations in surgical masks,
looking for a building we did not know.
we had been summoned to a mandatory meeting.
we drifted as people do,
in irregular formation, stopping to look at birds, of course,
gray birds wheeling in a vaguely blue sky.
we rested our eyes on the long lines of a white Brahmin cow,
sand on the ground, in drifts around the trees, old coconut
fronds. sun a little too strong on our heads,
flowers leaning on walls, cascading over old signs.

when we arrived, we signed our names,
drank water out of plastic cups
sat in chairs a few feet apart.
the atmosphere was calm, kind,
and a little confused.
the microphone the man used
alternately too loud and too quiet.
he gave us information about quarantine
and then we were allowed to go.

we walked back home along the beach.
the ice cream seller was out
the waves white along the shore,
more birds, more sand, more sky.

here is what i said: (March 22, 2020)

“it’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.
it’s all a lot, we’re so many people in a small house,
stepping on each other
closing clear glass doors so that
people run into them
spilling half a liter of milk in the fridge
breaking glasses
leaving towels on the floor
forgetting to put the butter away
and all of it. it’s okay, it’s emotional—
so much is happening—
and it means we’ll each have our moments,
but look at us. we’re doing so well.”

it’s what i said to my mom
after she apologized for some tiny thing
and i had said sorry too many times the day before
to my husband
for something bigger

and i admitted to my son that
i might have gone overboard
when i got annoyed with the way he was acting.

i'm sure you understand this, and you are
doing your best too
and all of us, all of us, are so beautifully,
heartbreakingly ourselves,
trying in our clumsy ways to be good to each other
and then sometimes we are transcendent,
almost winged, as though we could lift off
our
silhouettes outlined in light
brilliant in flight in the late afternoon.

a soft listening (March 23, 2020)

i walked down to the sea
in the heat of the day
and waded into the ocean with
as much dignity as i could manage
with the waves pushing me this way and that.
the water was warm,
and kind,
not quite turquoise, but something close
something softer
filling the eyes and the heart
its sound a rhythm like breathing,
leading to a long, clean line on the horizon.
i shouted words.
“pandemic!” i shouted. “COVID!
lockdown! medical certificate! quarantine!”
i dug deeper. “economy! death!”
the sea didn’t change,
no matter how many words i shouted
it was calm and impervious, unchanging,
which was a hard kind of relief.
but i felt a soft listening
a quiet love
an aching sorrow
from somewhere deeper
something higher and wider and more expansive
than even the ocean.


the last ones (March 24, 2020)

tonight we sang.
my mandolin was out of tune so i didn’t play along,
but i joined in the singing.

a couple of retired Swedes,
the last other people remaining
in this empty community of villas,
came out onto their porch and watched.
we didn’t know whether they were enjoying it
or whether it was getting too late
for a family of nine to sing on the porch,
sing so loudly and with so much
clanging of instruments
and strumming of chords.

Solomon danced in his chair like a wild thing.
i wanted it never to end.
on Friday those other people
will leave to fly back to Sweden,
and we will be all alone.
i hope they liked the singing, but i suppose,
after they go, we won’t have to care.
although i will wonder whether they got home safely,
what their quarantine was like,
what color their sheets are,
what they can see from their windows,
whether they
remember us
our loud
singing
and that we were the last ones here.

another way (March 25, 2020)

today,
i gave myself permission to be very small
to not jump up and get things when people
mentioned they might like to have them
to not make cheerful comments
or go on any errands armed with my mask and hand gel
instead i sat and played Skip Bo with my boys
didn’t do my
writing
softened into the couch
lay on the sand
didn’t practice or produce
didn’t cook more than a sandwich or an egg
didn’t concoct any plans for how we are going to get through this
i sliced a mango and apple chunks and ate them
i let myself be small and soft and a little bit tired,
instead of the very picture of capability.
it is another way to be strong, i think.
another way to be.

what she did: (March 26, 2020)

she woke
and journaled
and worked on some words,
forming sentences she had dreamed about.
she listened, and made lunches.
she walked to the sea and swam. she went on a long walk and collected tiny shells. her boys grabbed her hands whenever they could. she told her daughter, “just take a break today. don’t worry about school at all.”
she made dinner, cleaned up messes, accepted help, coached teenagers in better dishwashing strategies, absorbed more bad news, helped her parents book flight tickets. searched and searched for the best way to get them home.
she kept her cool. didn’t take herself too seriously.
she took her vitamins.
she wrote a poem.
she fell into bed,
she fell asleep.
she dreamed.

asking and giving (March 27, 2020)

they came while i was lost in thought—
two beach dogs, possibly related.
my kids name every dog they meet,
especially the ones who come back again and again,
so now the dogs on this beach all have names.
maybe they already did,
maybe because of my kids
they now have more than one name—
tiny assurances that they are seen,
that they are known, that some kids
want to run beside them
or help them catch crabs to eat,
or stand there with them, chatting away.
the two that flopped down next to me today were
Delta Force and Grizzly,
i think.
Grizzly : bigger, male,
a bit more scarred around the muzzle.
Delta Force : sweet and shy,
happy to run ahead of us
pretending she knows the way.
i had been sitting by myself,
thinking about a thousand things that i cannot control.
Delta Force came very close and licked my knee
i scratched her head,
just gently on top
and
when i stopped she put her paw on my hand
and pressed down
again
so i scratched her head,
and every time i stopped,
again
and then her brother came and did the same,
so i scratched his head too
they asked so nicely for what they wanted
again
paws ready, if i stopped scratching,
to let me know what they needed
a thousand things they could not control
but there we were
taking comfort in asking,
and giving.

falling in (March 28, 2020)

he is made up of so many
particles
his face the complexity of what feels like a hundred years
marriage and children and
memories of loss and
adventure and happy boring hours
light and sleepy mornings,
telling stories, so many meals
songs and smell and skin

that i can’t tell what he actually looks like.

i look and it’s not like seeing, the way you see something for the first time.
it’s more like falling into a well,
or seeing
beyond
seeing in layers.
to me he looks like he did twenty years ago, and like he will in another twenty years. he looks like me, and he looks like our sons. he looks like oceans and birds and music. he looks like unfortunately timed arguments and many, many hugs.
he looks like the feeling of his lips.
i never will know what his appearance is to a stranger, what they see when he walks down the street.
i squint and almost see it,
but then there i go, falling in.