Like a Tranquil Island
Of course I ran out of time, just barely
begun before I had to board, right as
I discovered at last the best part of
the city, the place where the artists were
thriving, painting their window frames purple,
using five colors to coat one house, the
way I always imagined we would be
living before a bus became a
metaphor for what was carrying us
away from ourselves and a place which would
quickly be behind us like a tranquil
island to which we would be unable
to return, an image I can see now
when I examine my palm, signs once just
beginning to reveal themselves but in
need of my decisions to come to the
surface: a string of small ovals in
a row, or a chain made from a series of
infinity symbols strung together
on my lifeline from now until it splits
and diverges toward each of my small wrist
bones, no where to go, hand having ended.
–
Even the Long List
Now that the garden is fading, I turn
to you, in great need of upkeep, what will
stay or go, whether the small shirts in your
closet will be culled, the bald tires on the
wall in the garage taken down and hauled
to the recycling center. Even the
dog can’t stop shedding what in the winter
he needed but what now, a month from fall
equinox, makes him itch and the fleas fat
on my ankles as soon as I’m down the
stairs at dawn, having woken earlier
than usual to find the house quiet
as ever, the darkness feeling sweet and
safe, even the long list of the day’s chores
on my table kind, for they make sleep possible.
–
I Left Their House
I left their house when there was still so much
do to, not only for myself but them.
You can’t stay forever, wind chimes sound just
when the wind is blowing and so going
somewhere, it’s nature to be visible
only when the leaves rise and flags flap their
announcements, celebrations, location
indicators. We accomplish a lot
as long as we know all effort will come
to nothing, that garden of mine one day
to become again a gathering of
little mounds and hillocks no one recalls
until, later, digging with a spade, some
soul finds something I once lost and looked for.
She will place it on a shelf, tell her friends
about it, point out in the hallway where she
heard a piano once stood. But that’s the
future. I have stayed four days. They are in
their 90’s and need plenty to be done
though all I managed was miniature
chicken pot pies, eight small containers of
spaghetti sauce while I also meant to
make several loaves. I have stacked towels
and lined up pill bottles to empty them
selves. I hung four paintings, then went to the
grocery for a two-pronged adaptor
plug, which had stymied their television
for two months. Today on my eight hour drive
I will think of all I should have done as
well, especially if I get lost on
my way home because I am regretting
how soon that poke weed I left by the front
door will signal no one’s home who cares.
–
Sour Mango
I keep trying. Sometimes to stop is wiser,
to let go of the night, the day, rise above
the down below, forget it all, even
what you can’t remember. I was nearly ten
before I peeled a mango, perfectly ripe,
proving what they had told me: the only way
to eat a mango is to suck it, a time
I have tried to repeat with every mango
since then and all I will eat in the future.
Seed and water, sun and air, the richness of
the dirt are not as important as timing.
~
Sandra Kolankiewicz’s poems have appeared widely over the past thirty-five years, starting out with Mississippi Review in 1980 and most recently here, at New World Writing. She teaches developmental English in West Virginia.