Learning To Speak Her Own Name Twice

Any other room or any other solitaire!
She oils the teak and lets that sit.
The parts she had thought they’d stock
have kept her waiting days --
watching the trucks perform / the days
add up in terrible fists and grid-irons --
boys with their blames to bear -- and
voluble schoolings -- feeling
fall come on -- in the bean-rows
and the rock-maples. She oils
the teak and lets that sit -- warming
her fingers there -- and
in the warm glow of beleek -- stroking
the creamer’s base -- imagining
the local doubts and all that charged
astonishment -- the looks of kids --
delivering water in well-country --
and meals arriving
unannounced -- before she’s called
and asked for them -- meals
like one more form -- of being
comfortable. So what if the cops
she thinks were thinking probably --
and the boys she’s met -- since
there’ll be everything to tell -- striding
in air -- when air had seemed
impossible -- were finding another
use for tools -- another use
for that folk art and local history --
quaint as these quaint kids seem --
as the sportsboys seem -- pedalling
their bikes down school steps
toward an adventure -- and voices
that might be steer / be stars
over the dark chimneys -- visiting
again as trains and trains
of faces visit her*

They come with their candies and bread treats --
their desires for her pre-set
and all that meant nineteen once --
and all that the tall men
seemed -- bending their tongues
to her -- their wills
to confiscate -- and all
of this gliding
company -- walking on air
and following
the air’s motion
off
that slope.

Tonight might have meant so much --
and this last light feathering
the textured walls and bedcovers -- this
breathing she thinks she sees
and almost sees appreciate -- where
trains solidify -- the carnival motion
swells -- in all that gliding company --
having agreed to walk in just such ways
before the world. And maybe she’s raked
ton-loads. Maybe she’s thinking
films -- thinking some street song
just above a whisper as Time glides --
where nothing but darkness sits -- and
nothing but darkness -- finished off
to suit -- condensed in this room
/ this solitaire -- where she has been
waiting days -- arranging the notes
for relatives -- explaining the films
again -- and all the modest ways
she’s suffered -- given the week
spun down / the grand-daughters
beginning mittens / or tearing
mittens out -- setting her dreams
on the hill routes / on
the hill homes dressed
in vinyl flowers and
false brick.

So what if she’s still their centerfold
/ if all she has dreamed
and understood -- spoken
to green stone --
moves in the light
/ the absence
of light -- in
accidental
wind?

She’ll let them have their summertimes --
selling that Cessna
part-by-part there on the front lawn --
piecing the reasons out --
blowing the dust off calendars --
off letters
they might have sealed
and addressed --
posted somewhere
/ any other
once.

She’ll let them have their summertimes --
and let them have
the cast of winters afterward -- stroking
the creamer’s base,
and warming her fingers there
in the warm glow
of beleek -- watching the trucks blow by --
their doubtful fenders
snagging wind -- following the cheer
and modes of cheer
till her gaze fails -- remembering
the breezy and local songs --
here -- on the south shoulder --
half-way to Alliance --
and here -- where the freeway
ends in jiffy-lubes
and pit stops -- a man
ignoring
the clotheslines’ dip --
the downswaying limbs --
the looks of this storm
blown-in / and
now this storm
locked-in -- from
all directions
lacking one.