Four poems for a Midwinter Day

for/afterBernadette Mayer (1945-2022)

 

1.

Love                       asall transition, flight—a concentrated dash

ofwindowsill, groceries,
childcare                                      ,this reinvention

ofblue. What day is it? Will I be soon?           Our elder child
today at school                  , ouryounger,

here,this       lingering cough. Another grey weekday. Aoife drags

herselfin bare feet, blanket wrapped                          pyjamas. I hold up facts

,a desperation                                        of snowy trees
andtires                  , white streets. Thistime   of plague.

 

2.

Asong                              ofBernadette,                   what hand
acrossthis biographical feature

ofchildren, laundry, library. How

theI                       yearns. A way to make                 and making, to

makesense, what have you. Where
youhave gone. This richness, an articulation

ofjournaled time. My love is like

alobster, or                       a red             balloon, the pinnacle
ofwindow pane, this                             frosted          peak.

 

3.

Acurve, and tension                              of old masters. Be strong,
weare here             for a reason,

orreasons. An accidental

changeof speed. Be strong, Bernadette,
Aoife,                    Robert Alan. Be memory,mindful                   , as much

asyour own heart. This turbulence                  of
suchtextured surfaces. Perhaps

thereis no cure                           or respite. I wonder: do

thehouse mice                 underneath             thestairs
declare:We have

agood life, here. This poem                  could have been an email.

 

4.

Theday, the day, it            gets away fromme.
Theday.