This Is Not an Envy Poem, and: Emergency Comfort Kit
Rent from DeepDyve- This Is Not an Envy Poem, and: Emergency Comfort Kit
This Is Not an Envy Poem
but it wants your pedicured feet those shiny bits like miniature Christmas tree bulbs
this poem wants your screened-in porch and your swinging porch swing
wants your snaking-through-the-fence tomato plant which somehow didn’t die
in the first hard frost this poem wants your trip to Southeast Asia and your trip
to Bhutan wants all the birds on your life list even and especially the scarlet macaw that swooped
on your Monteverde Cloud Forest picnic this poem wants your view your smooth
and hairless calves your dog walking the hardwood floors this poem wants
your gas grill your reading glasses your black plastic pond with year-round goldfish
wants the duckweed that keeps it from growing dank this poem wants to be as tall as you
tall and with pom-pom sweaters big pink pom-poms this poem won’t stop scratching at your door
like a desperate needy goat this poem wants to eat up all your leftovers pick clean your meaty greasy bones [End Page 111]
Emergency Comfort Kit
Inside, we should place a blanket, one that folds to the size of a toy kazoo. A light stick, the kind kids love
to swirl at the darkening sky. He needed six hand wipes, a pack of Kleenex, his name on a 3-by-5 card.
A small cozy toy made sense, and I knew which ones we couldn’t take away, but the one he would need that day—
which? The 30-gallon trash bag: a poncho of course. A family photo—for comfort—but also identification.
Lastly, a letter—words they’d hand our son so he’d know he was safe. We were to tell ourselves
these were ordinary measures, thoughts to store away in the bottom-most drawer, on the farthest,
most unreachable shelf. That the likelihood of needing the raisins was slim, that even when a blizzard
disabled all our county’s buses, most of the children slept that night in their beds. This was routine,
and the cans of apple juice would never be punctured, and the letter, like the looks on our faces,
would never be read. [End Page 112]
Martha Silano is the author of Blue Positive (Steel Toe Books) and What the Truth Tastes Like (Nightshade Press). Her poems have recently appeared in TriQuarterly, Green Mountains Review, and the anthology Not for Mothers Only: On Child-Getting and Child-Rearing (Fence Books). In 2007 she was awarded a grant from the Washington State Artist Trust. She has a poem forthcoming in The Best American Poetry 2009. A four-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize, Silano lives in Seattle, Washington, where she teaches at Edmonds and Bellevue Community College.
