Self-Portrait as Something Like a Heart, and: Self-Portrait as the River Floods

Self-Portrait as Something Like a Heart

Barefoot, backdoor, the humand clink of a kitchen, a breeze

on my back in the storm-blown night. It was neverjust a house, that place. One day seeped

into the next. A blue-walled room,a window, the willow hung with sorrowing

branches, ribbons of shade my inheritance.There was always one door to slip through

unnoticed, four walls of shelter-in-place, or the woods closing

its curtain behind me. Listen, there are birdsmore often seen than heard, there are words

we fasten to their calls—Fire firewhere where and Who cooks for you? Came to a hill

the perfect slant for watching the skybruise with storm. Came to an orchard

months beyond fruit. Look, back then my boneswere breastplate, sturdy nest, no need

for the word relic. And the plumtasted something like a heart

should taste—deep, red, sweetand tart together.

Self-Portrait as the River Floods

Snow chokes this town like a plague.Slumped walls of white,every corner clotted. Marchcomes in dazed—the suna weak rumor, quiveringhills, a just-begun dreamof runoff. I go backyears to the town of high ground,that first yard necklaced by creekand stone, berries bramblingdown the backyard hill.I go back—crocusstriving through snow,all the orchards waitingto blush then breakopen. Now I knownot to sink too deep in the foldsof the bed, that even floorscan wander. Nightsof crest and sandbag,the borrowed bridgeto safe ground swampedby morning. I go downto watch the water's surgeand spoils—there goes our table,there, the spare key, there gothe stories I told them.The children are growinglong and ravenous.What can I buildthat will hold?