of a man I never loved who pressed

my breasts to his lips and whispered

“My little doves, my white, white lilies.”

I could almost cry when I remember it.

I don’t remember when I began

to call everyone “sweetie,”

as if they were my daughters,

my darlings, my little birds.

I have always loved too much,

or not enough. Last night

I read a poem about God and almost

believed it — God sipping coffee,

smoking cherry tobacco. I’ve arrived

at a time in my life when I could believe

almost anything.

Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood

hatless in the rain and the whole world

went silent — cars on the wet street

sliding past without sound, the attendant’s

mouth opening and closing on air

as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps

erased in the rain — nothing

but the tiny numbers in their square windows

rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds

gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,

balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle

gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.

And I saw it didn’t matter

who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.

The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty

of the Iranian attendant, the thickening

clouds — nothing was mine. And I understood

finally, after a semester of philosophy,

a thousand books of poetry, after death

and childbirth and the startled cries of men

who called out my name as they entered me,

I finally believed I was alone, felt it

in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo

like a thin bell. And the sounds

came back, the slish of tires

and footsteps, all the delicate cargo

they carried saying thank you

and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car

as if nothing had happened —

as if everything mattered — What else could I do?

I drove to the grocery store

and bought wheat bread and milk,

a candy bar wrapped in gold foil,

smiled at the teenaged cashier

with the pimpled face and the plastic

name plate pinned above her small breast,

and knew her secret, her sweet fear —

Little bird. Little darling. She handed me

my change, my brown bag, a torn receipt,

pushed the cash drawer in with her hip

and smiled back.

Aphasia

for Honeya

After the stroke all she could say

was Venezuela, pointing to the pitcher

with its bright blue rim, her one word

command. And when she drank the clear

water in and gave the glass back,

it was Venezuela again, gratitude,

maybe, or the word now simply

a sigh, like the sky in the window,

the pillows a cloudy definition

propped beneath her head. Pink roses

dying on the bedside table, each fallen

petal a scrap in the shape of a country

she’d never been to, had never once

expressed interest in, and now

it was everywhere, in the peach

she lifted, dripping, to her lips,